Catalyst
by Virginiana
Summary: A Sam/Milner story. How two dear friends and colleagues gradually come to realise how much they mean to each other.
1. Chapter 1: Something to Celebrate

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**Author's Note: Like **_**The Breakup**_**, this is a story I began writing several years ago. It's not a sequel **_**per se**_**, but it does draw on incidents and conversations in that earlier story, so best to read that one first for continuity. Feedback is always appreciated! **

_Thursday 24 August 1944, late afternoon_

DCS Foyle closed the manila folder on his desk with an air of finality. "… so the KC seems confident. Airtight case," he concluded. "Your report along with the evidence ought to be enough to get the whole gang several years at hard labour, longer for the ringleaders. Well done."

His assistant, Detective Sergeant Paul Milner, looked pleased but nodded modestly. "Thank you, sir." The long months he had spent infiltrating a particularly clever ration-book forgery scheme dogging the South Coast had finally paid off with the arrest of no less than nine racketeers and the recovery of a large quantity of cash and false documents.

Foyle set the folder aside picked up a plain white envelope which he handed nonchalantly across the desk. "One thing more. I saw the Assistant Commissioner while I was in London. Asked me to give you this."

The DCS sat back slightly in his chair and laced his fingers as he watched his sergeant extract the single typewritten sheet. He knew what the letter contained and had been looking forward to witnessing Milner's reaction to it. He was not disappointed; the younger man's expression changed from curiosity to incredulity as his eyes flew down the page. Milner read the through the letter twice before raising wide eyes to Foyle. "_Inspector_," he said in wonder.

His superior was smiling at him in an unusual show of pride and pleasure. "Congratulations."

"I can't believe it," the younger man confessed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't really think I'd ever see another promotion."

"Nonsense. Long overdue. You've been handling investigations yourself for a year now, but not many promotions in wartime. Now you'll have rank to match your responsibilities."

"Sir, I … thank you. I know you must have put me up for this. I can't tell you how much it means …"

"You've earned it," Foyle told him, gesturing to the folder with its forgery report. "The AC was very impressed with your work on this ration-book business. This was his decision, not mine. Well deserved." And he reached across the desk to shake Milner firmly by the hand, his mind flashing back to that day four long years ago when their partnership had been sealed with just such a gesture.

* * *

Milner closed Foyle's office door quietly behind him and stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, savouring his triumph. Inspector! It was more than he had dared hope for, at least since Trondheim. True, his career had seemed promising enough when he'd first made sergeant at the unusually young age of twenty-three, but the shell which had taken half his left leg had put paid his hopes of achieving higher rank. Who had ever heard of a crippled police inspector? He had half-resigned himself to spending the rest of his career as a detective sergeant, feeling himself lucky to have been taken back on the force at all.

But now, despite everything, he had made it. _Inspector_ Milner. And at thirty, no less, still a relatively young man. He laughed a little under his breath and started down the corridor, his feet carrying him not back to his own office but in search of the one person in the station who he was sure would rejoice most enthusiastically in his news.

He found her in the station kitchen, washing up the last of the cups and saucers from afternoon tea. Jacket and belt doffed and sleeves rolled to the elbow, she was humming "The White Cliffs of Dover" softly along with the wireless. A few wisps of red-gold hair had escaped from her Victory roll and curled damply against her neck in the heat of the August afternoon.

Sam spied his tall figure out of the corner of her eye and broke off in mid-tune. "Oh, hello. Did you want some tea? There's a bit left in the pot, but I'm afraid it's not very hot - " her words trailed off at his expression. "_What_? What's happened?" He didn't reply, just handed her the letter. Her eyes flew down the page and she broke into a brilliant smile. "Oh, _Milner_! You're being promoted! How absolutely marvellous!"

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" He grinned, letting himself bask for a moment in the accomplishment and in the wholehearted delight on her face.

"Well, that's certainly something to be proud of. And just before you go on holiday, too! How are you going to celebrate?"

"I hadn't really thought. I only found out just now …" he paused, considering. "I know. What would you say to a really nice dinner out? Someplace special?"

"You mean … with me?" Sam was a little surprised; she had been thinking more along the lines of Milner standing a round for his police mates at the King's Head. "Tonight?"

"Of course. Who better? Unless you have other plans."

"No, no … I'd love to!"

"Good. I'll ring up a few places and see if I can book a table."

* * *

Sam hung her cap on the hall-tree of her digs and hurried upstairs to the first-floor sitting room, where her three fellow boarders were relaxing. "Ah, there you are, Sam," Fiona greeted her from the sofa with a lazy wave of her cigarette. "We were just deciding if we should go to the pictures tonight. It's right up your street, Sam, another mystery. _Double Indemnity _at the Ritz. Did your Mr Foyle keep you late again?"

"Yes, he did, and he picked a _jolly_ bad day for it," she replied, fingers flying down the buttons of her jacket. "Sorry, no cinema for me. I'm going out to dinner and I've got exactly forty-five minutes to put myself together."

"A dinner invitation? Who? Where?" Ruth swung her legs off the arm of her chair, her face alight with interest.

"With Milner. And believe it or not, _Les Bijoux_!"

"Milner! One of your policemen? Since when are you stepping out with _him_?" asked Lesley from the window seat.

Sam was tugging at the knot in her tie. "We're not _stepping out_, Lesley, he's just a friend. He's just been promoted and wants to celebrate. But I've _no_ idea what to wear. Help me, girls?"

In the two years they'd been lodging together in Priory Lane, the four young women had become great friends. Together they had perfected the art of helping one other transform from their workaday uniforms and drab utility clothes into the height of wartime chic, often at short notice. Clothes, shoes, jewellery and make-up were lent freely as they pooled their meagre finery.

Over the past few years Sussex had become temporary home to large numbers of servicemen - Canadian, American and Australian as well as British. Their presence all but guaranteed a busy social life to any interested young woman. Hardly an evening had gone by when at least one of the girls had not stepped out with some soldier or airman; gradually they had built up a coterie of favourite escorts who would frequently take all four out together for an evening of dancing and frivolity.

But the delights of this social whirl had tapered off sharply the previous spring as the Allied armies began final preparations for the invasion of France. Now, two months after D-Day, their beaux were all on the other side of the Channel and evenings out had become a rarity. At Sam's last-minute invitation—and to _Les Bijoux_, Hastings' most elegant French restaurant - her three loyal friends swung into action.

Lesley drew her bath while Fiona, who had a relatively generous supply of pre-war evening dresses handed down from three elder sisters, rooted round in her wardrobe. "Here we are," she declared, sweeping into Sam's room after she had emerged from the bath. "_This_ one. And no arguing, Sam, it's just the thing."

"Oh, Fee, really … the yellow silk? It's lovely, but don't you think it's a bit … daring?" Sam said hesitantly, running a tentative finger along a smooth lemon fold.

"_No!_ The colour's perfect for you, and it'll be lovely and cool on such a warm evening. Good job you're so slim; you won't need an iron corset like poor Ruth," said Fiona. "Now, where are your stockings?"

They buzzed round her like bees, eager to turn Sam out looking her very best. She watched her reflection in the glass as Fiona zipped the frock. _Oh, my,_ she thought, a little abashed, _Dad would _not_ approve, not one little bit!_ At the same time, though, she couldn't help be pleased with what she saw. The soft shade of yellow, neither too bright nor too pale, set off her vivid hair and dark eyes to perfection. The satin bodice clung snugly at waist and bosom and rose to clasp behind her neck in a smooth halter, exposing her shoulders and upper back along with the tiniest hint of maidenly cleavage. The silk tulle skirt fell to her knees and rustled delightfully when she moved. Simple yet elegant, it was far more sophisticated than any dress she'd ever worn and it made her feel pretty, alluring and more than a little bit daring.

Lesley, correctly interpreting the expression on her face, said lightly, "Oh, Sam, buck up. You don't _have_ to dress like a vicar's daughter all the time, you know. You look smashing. Now come and sit so Ruth can fix your hair!"

Overwhelmed by her friends' enthusiasm, she meekly submitted to the ministrations of Ruth, who had been a hairdresser before the war and was a genius at subduing Sam's flyaway curls. Then mascara to darken her lashes, a touch of eyeliner, a dusting of power – her natural high colouring making rouge unnecessary – and a careful application of coral-pink lipstick.

She dabbed her throat and wrists with the stopper of her favourite bottle of floral scent, carefully hoarded for special occasions as it was now impossible to find in the shops, while her friends debated the question of jewellery. In the end they settled on no necklace, no bracelets, just Sam's own little garnet ring and Lesley's diamante ear-bobs. After she rose from her dressing table there was another good-natured wrangle over footwear. "_Not_ those old brown pumps, Sam!" Ruth scolded, insisting on lending her new and very high-heeled cream court shoes.

"But they're too wide for me, Ruth, I'll trip!"

"Nonsense. Just walk slowly. You're not going dancing afterward, are you?"

"No …"

"Fine. You look perfect. Your policeman won't know what hit him."

"I told you, it's not like that. He's just a _chum_," Sam repeated as the doorbell rang.


	2. Chapter 2: Champagne and Moonlight

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Milner's ring was answered promptly by Mrs Cox, the landlady, who admitted him to the sitting room before disappearing back to her kitchen to deal with a recalcitrant pudding. He fidgeted with his hat, listening to the faint feminine chatter from above-stairs. Sam had long ago told him about her friendship with Lesley, Ruth and Fiona, so the distant sounds of merriment came as no surprise. He did hope she'd hurry, though, as the restaurant was some distance away.

It wasn't long before he heard her voice bidding her friends good-bye and her light step descending the stairs. In another moment she appeared in the doorway. He blinked.

Sam? Was _this_ Sam, this slender, alluring vision, auburn curls rippling unconfined to her bare shoulders? He was used to a girl in severe olive drab and flat service shoes, not this stunning young woman with her high heels and shapely silk-clad legs, waist and bosom outlined and emphasised by clinging lemon-coloured silk. He stared at her for several seconds, dumbstruck. At his expression she hesitated, flushing a little, a shy smile flitting across her face.

It was a smile he had seen a thousand times before, girlish and endearing, utterly without artifice. Suddenly she was Sam again, his friend, recognisable despite her elegant appearance. "Sam," he began awkwardly. "I – you … you look lovely. I wasn't expecting … I'm honoured."

Her colour deepened, but the familiar smile widened, sweet as ever. "Thank you," she said simply. "Shall we be off?"

He groaned inwardly as he held the front door open for her to pass ahead of him, unable to prevent himself from staring. God, he'd _never_ expected Sam to have such an impact on him, but of course she had no way of knowing his weakness for a woman's bare shoulders. It had always been his secret Achilles' heel. Her skin was pale and creamy, with just the tiniest hint of freckling visible; he wondered if it would feel as satiny as it looked … _stop it_, he told himself firmly. _This is Sam_, _remember. My friend. Mr Foyle's driver … and very definitely out of bounds!_

He was distracted from his unruly thoughts when she stumbled a little near the bottom of the steps, catching the handrail to steady herself. "I'm all right," she assured him with a rueful chuckle. "It's these shoes, you see. They're too wide for me. A bit slippy. You'll have to take mercy on me and walk slowly, I'm afraid!"

They covered the distance to the restaurant at a leisurely pace, in deference to the elegant but ill-fitting footwear. Milner didn't mind. He found the going easier once they were out in the street; walking beside her, he didn't have to look directly at her and was able to grapple with his runaway reactions. His heart rate gradually returned to normal as they chatted about people and cases and other everyday things. He noticed several men casting her admiring glances as they passed and stood a little taller, feeling proud that she was stepping out with _him_. Well, perhaps not _stepping out_ exactly, but still …

_Les Bijoux_ was tucked into the ground floor of a quaint old half-timbered building in Hastings Old Town, nearly a mile from Sam's digs in Priory Lane. They were ushered to a table by the owner, Monsieur Rosenthal. Milner had heard the man's story, though he had never dined here before. A small, balding man with worried dark eyes, Rosenthal and his family had narrowly escaped the Nazi occupation of Paris four years before. While his Catholic wife might have been able to avoid arrest, her husband and their six half-Jewish children would certainly have faced a concentration camp. Smuggled to England on a fishing boat, the family had turned to Madame Rosenthal's formidable culinary skills to support themselves. With a loan from a London refugee organisation, the Rosenthals had worked long and hard to make a success of their small restaurant. The entire family now worked there except for the two eldest sons, away serving with General de Gaulle and his Free French Army.

The table to which the restaurateur led them faced a wide southwestern window which commanded a spectacular view of the sun sinking slowly into the sea. As it was a Thursday night, there were only a few other diners present, none seated nearby.

As one of the Rosenthal daughters carefully poured wine from their allotted half-carafe, Milner watched his companion covertly, admiring the way the sunlight set fire to her copper curls. Once the waitress had moved away, she raised her wineglass to him with another of her open, artless smiles. "To you," she said. "Inspector Milner. I'm _so_ pleased they've finally come round to how brilliant you are."

He couldn't prevent a rather sheepish grin at hearing his new title spoken aloud. "That sounds so strange. I hadn't even expected to make Inspector, certainly not until after the war."

"Well, you certainly look the part. Quite distinguished, in fact. New suit?" He nodded, glad he'd waited until recently to redeem most of his year's clothing points on this crisply-pressed dove grey pinstripe. He'd only worn it once before, to testify in court in an embezzlement case he'd cracked. "You look like a man destined to make Chief Inspector by thirty-five."

He laughed at that. "I don't know about that, Sam. Don't want to get ahead of myself. Actually, I don't think I've entirely taken it in yet."

"Well, you have a whole fortnight's holiday to accustom yourself to your new glory. When do you leave?"

"First thing tomorrow. Early train to London, then on to Derbyshire. I was supposed to leave Saturday, but Mr Foyle was kind enough to give me an extra day."

"You must be looking forward to it."

He nodded again. "It's nearly three years since I've seen my sister. Jack was only a baby last time we met, and now I have a new niece as well."

"Your sister's going to move down here soon, you said?"

"Yes. Her husband has been posted up there for the past couple of years and she's been staying with her mother-in-law nearby. But now his unit's been sent to France, so she's coming down to Hastings to be nearer, in case he's able to get home unexpectedly."

"Nice for you, to have her close by."

"Yes. Penny's my only family, you know, but we've hardly seen each other since the start of the war. It'll be nice to see something of her for a change."

"Where will she live?"

"I've found her a little house over near St. Leonards. Not too far."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. First came a rich chicken consommé seasoned with herbs - a real treat, as the demand for eggs had made poultry all but unobtainable during the war. It was followed by Dover sole, grilled to perfection and served with new potatoes and Brussels sprouts in a delicate creamy sauce. It would have been a splendid meal at the best of times, but for two people accustomed to the monotony of rationing it seemed a veritable feast.

"This is _marvellous_," Sam enthused, gesturing with her fork. "Truly. I almost forgot food could taste this wonderful. It's been so long … Dad loves sole, you know. We used to have it all the time before the war. And leg of lamb. And pork chops. And roast beef and Yorkshire pud every Sunday without fail."

Milner smiled and took a sip of wine. "My mother used to make that. Not too often, though. We'd have ham most Sundays, or perhaps chicken. But I'm afraid my favourite dish was steak-and-kidney pie, with trifle for sweet. Mum could make the best steak-and-kidney pie you ever tasted."

Sam sighed with longing at the memory of such gastronomic riches. "When this war is over," she said, "I'm _never_ going to eat another bite of corned beef. Or cabbage. Or …"

"Woolton pie?" he smiled at her. It was an old joke between them.

"Certainly not!"

"And no more Spam sandwiches," he agreed.

"Not a one."

"And you'll be able to put as much sugar in your tea as you like."

"Oh, yes! And _proper_ tea, too, not what we get on ration. Mother loves Earl Grey."

"And real beer, not watered-down pints of lager."

"And ice cream."

"And bacon and egg for breakfast every day!"

Their laughter was interrupted by a sharp squeal from the restaurant kitchen. Turning to look, Milner caught a glimpse through the swinging door of four or five people clustered around a wireless set. There was a brief burst of static as someone turned up the volume; then the announcer's deep voice was drowned out by several voices crying out at once. He and Sam exchanged glances as the sedate ambience of _Les Bijoux_ was shattered by excited voices, sobbing and the muffled crash of something heavy being dropped to the floor. "What on _earth_?" she asked, sounding concerned. "D'you think something's wrong?"

It wasn't long before they learned the cause of the disturbance. When their young waitress emerged from the kitchen a minute later, they were relieved to see that she was smiling through her tears. "Oh, _pardon_, _Monsieur, Mademoiselle,_" she gasped breathlessly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "Only we have just heard … on _le radio_ … how you say, zee wireless ... _Paris est libre!_ _Les Allemands_ … the Germans … zey are retreating! Zee Allies, zey are all around zee city, ready to enter! _Et mes frères sont ici, avec les __Forces Françaises _ – my brothers!"

Behind her the kitchen door swung open and an ebullient Monsieur Rosenthal emerged carrying a large green bottle, followed by his apron-clad wife, still weeping with joy, two more daughters with trays of tall wine glasses and a teenaged boy bearing two more bottles. He held up a hand in a dramatic plea for silence and addressed the handful of remaining diners in a voice husky with emotion.

"Four long years ago my family was forced to flee our home with leetle more than zee clothes on our backs. We came here to England, to Hastings, where we have been allowed to live and to work and even to send our children to school. _Plus important_, zees country has given us protection from ze murdering_ Boche_ and we will be eternally grateful. And now we learn, _enfin_, that the filthy German pigs are chased out of our beloved Paris at last! I have been saving zis special vintage for zis day, and all of you wonderful English must help us drink to the liberation of our beautiful city!"

There was a loud _pop_! and a small shower of foam as he began pouring the bubbling golden liquid into the tall flutes. When everyone present had a glass, he held his own high, cried, "_Paris est libre! Vivé la France_!", took a reverential sip and burst into tears.

Sam's eyes were glowing at the emotional scene. "Do you know," she said, raising her glass, "I've never had champagne before."

"Never?"

"No. Well, no chance of tasting it at home, was there? And after I joined up there wasn't any more to be had. It's _quite_ nice, isn't it?" She sipped again, savouring the flavour and the queer bubbly sensation on her tongue.

Sam would always remember that evening at _Les Bijoux_ as a surreal, almost magical blur of plaintive accordion music, rapid French chatter, the fizz of champagne and a peculiar warm feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sensation which grew stronger every time she felt her companion's eyes upon her. Milner had often looked at her with unmistakable fondness, but this expression was somehow different. More … admiring. As though she were someone special in his eyes. Perhaps she was imagining it, or perhaps it was the merely the champagne, but she found she quite liked the feeling.

She knew she was getting tipsy but she didn't care. "Better go slowly; this stuff's stronger than you think," Milner had cautioned her when Monsieur Rosenthal rushed over to refill her glass for the second time. But she had merely wrinkled her nose playfully at him and she noticed that he, too, drained his third glass.

* * *

It had grown very late by the time they left the restaurant, leaving the Rosenthal family singing French folk songs along with the accordion. Even with Double Summer Time, it was fully dark and blackout curtains had been drawn. The summer night was warm and quiet, the moon drifting lazily in and out of the clouds. They set off toward Priory Lane at a leisurely pace, Milner lighting their way with his small pocket torch. He, too, felt pleasantly giddy, and was in no hurry to see the evening end.

Beside him, Sam drew in a deep breath of salt-tinged air and released it in a sigh. "Do you think it'll be like that here when we finally win the war?" she asked. "Like the Rosenthals, I mean? People laughing and crying and dancing with strangers?"

"I don't know. It's hard to imagine, isn't it?"

"It is, rather. But then, it's hard to imagine the war actually _ending_. It's gone on for so long now … everything will be so different. Different to before, I mean."

He was a little surprised by her words. As a rule, people didn't talk much about the end of the war. The struggle had been so long and so deadly that to speak of victory seemed almost to tempt fate. "What do you mean?"

"Just that … so much has happened. People's lives have changed so much. How can we just go back to the way we were?"

He thought about his life before the war: still finding his way as a detective sergeant, newly married to Jane, looking forward to starting a family. And, of course, with both legs intact. No, there would be no going back to that life. "Well, I suppose people will have to start over. Rebuild their lives."

"I suppose so." They emerged into a cobbled square bathed in moonlight. Sam wobbled a bit on the uneven surface, catching at his arm for balance.

"Whoa, careful there! Told you to mind the champagne," he said lightly, trying to ignore the thrill shooting up his arm.

"It's not the champagne, it's these _shoes_!" she protested, releasing him and tossing her head in mock indignation as she laughed. He chuckled too, but rather hollowly, disconcerted by his body's reaction to the contact. _My God, what's the matter with me? Must be tipsier than I thought_. He gave himself a very hard mental pinch, glad it was too dark for her to make out his expression.

They continued on their way and after a moment she returned to their previous conversation. "It's just … I've been thinking about it a lot lately. The end of the war, I mean."

"Have you?"

"Yes. We've been talking about it at home, you see. Lesley and Fiona and Ruth and I. We all know we'll be demobbed sooner or later, once it's all over, but what then?"

Milner glanced at her in the faint light. "You wouldn't just go home?"

"To Lyminster? Hardly. Oh, it'd be nice to go home for a jolly long visit, a fortnight or so, but I'd die of boredom in a month. Mr Foyle won't need me any more, once the war's over, so what shall I do with myself?"

Milner opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong, that of course Mr Foyle would keep her on as his driver as long as she wished, but the words stuck in his throat. She was right, he knew; the assistant commissioner was not likely to permit even a ranking officer to employ an outside driver – especially a woman – once the force was back to full strength. There would be plenty of young constables and sergeants available to chauffeur a chief superintendent about.

He cleared his throat. "What would you like to do?"

"I'm not sure. I'd like to go on being a driver, but how many jobs like that are there likely to be? I'm a non-starter at typing and shorthand, so I don't expect I'd be much use in an office. I suppose I could be a shop-girl, though I don't much fancy that. But I _was_ thinking about trying my luck up in London."

He felt a sudden hollow sensation in his stomach, rather like the free-fall _swoop_ he remembered from boyhood rides on the amusements at Brighton Pier. "London?"

"Yes. Well, it will be quite exciting, don't you think, once the war's over? There'll be all sorts of rebuilding going on. Lots of opportunities. More chance of doing something interesting."

His tongue felt thick. He tried to imagine the Hastings police station without Sam, but it was impossible. She had been there for so long, was such a fixture … it was almost unthinkable. He swallowed hard and fumbled for a reply. "You … you wouldn't prefer to stay in Hastings?"

"I wouldn't mind staying here, I suppose. But it won't be the same, will it? Everyone's bound to scatter to the four winds. Fiona and Ruth will be married, of course. Fiona's got her Australian air gunner and Ruth will go to Cornwall with that cavalryman of hers. And Lesley's smitten with a Canadian Navy lieutenant out in Ceylon or someplace, though she doesn't talk about him much. So they'll all be gone."

"What about you? You wouldn't want to get married?"

"Me? To whom? Anyway, I don't feel ready to settle down just yet. It would be nice to have a bit of adventure first."

"I see," he managed, shocked as much by the strength of his own dismay as by the thought of losing her. He wanted to protest, but once again no words would come.

It seemed no time at all before they were turning the corner into Priory Lane. A few yards from her door, Sam's shoe came down on a loose paving stone and skidded, plunging her forward. Milner lunged and caught her round the waist, pulling her close against him to break her fall. She clutched at his coat sleeves, gasping with surprise as she recovered her footing.

They stayed quite still for a moment, catching their breath. He had dropped his torch so it was very dark, too dark for him to make out her face, but he knew it was only inches from his own. He knew he should release her but couldn't bring himself to do so, acutely aware of all the alluring details he'd been trying all evening to ignore. He could feel her waist, slim and supple, beneath his hands, feel her breasts pressing against his chest, smell the perfume on her skin. _Flowers_, he thought vaguely. _Not roses, not violets … lilac, perhaps? H__oneysuckle__?_ He had been catching faint whiffs of it all evening without consciously realising it, but whatever it was, it was more intoxicating to him than the champagne. He breathed in the scent, revelling in the feel of her in his arms, aching to kiss her.

The moment lengthened. She stood as motionless as he, still clinging to his sleeves, so close he could feel her warm breath on his chin. And then the temptation was more than he could stand; almost of its own volition, his head dipped and found her mouth.

Her lips were almost unbearably soft under his. Instinctively he kissed her slowly, gently, not wishing to startle her, wanting to prolong the aching sweetness. She made a tiny whimpering sound in the back of her throat and seemed to melt against him, her lips parting to welcome a deeper kiss. He tasted champagne on her lips and knew he was lost, overwhelmed by desire crashing over him like a wave.

Her hands relaxed their grip on his sleeves and slid up to his shoulders, caressing in sensual circles. He pulled her still closer, his hands spreading wide across her back, and had to suppress a groan of pleasure when his fingers brushed her bare skin. _Oh, God, so warm, so soft_… he thought, his senses reeling with her touch, her scent, her taste.

Suddenly a blinding light flashed nearby, blazing brightly in the blackout darkness. Instinctively they broke apart, both breathing hard. Shocked and disoriented, it took him a moment to realise that a door in front of them had been thrown open, allowing electric light to pour out. It felt as though a floodlight had been turned upon them, exposing his folly, his perfidy. Good God, _what_ had possessed him?

"_Oi!_" came an angry shout from up the street. "Put that light out, you!" Milner heard pounding footsteps approaching from behind. In the open doorway a silhouetted figure reeled, clutching a bottle; it slurred an oath and slammed the door, plunging them back into darkness. The furious warden pushed past him and began to beat on the door, shouting threats at the drunken inhabitant.

Milner's heart was pounding. He was desperate to read Sam's expression, to see if she was upset or offended, but the sudden light had temporarily destroyed his night vision. He could barely discern her outline in the deep shadows. "Sam," he stammered. "Sam, I'm – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – to … "

"No, no, it's all right," she replied, her voice high and shaky. "Really, it's … never mind. I should be … it's late. Thank you for … it was … lovely. Everything. Good night ..." And before he could say another word, she had slipped in her own front door and shut it quietly behind her.


	3. Chapter 3: Reflections

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Sleep eluded Milner that night. After several hours of fruitless tossing and turning, he abandoned the effort with a groan and fumbled next to the bed for his prosthetic leg. He gulped a tall glass of water – all that champagne had left him with a powerful thirst – and then paced the sitting room distractedly, trying to sort out the confusing jumble of thoughts and feelings whirling within him. _Sam._ Why had he been so strongly affected by her? Why had he succumbed to madness and kissed her? And what in God's name must she think of him now?

For the first time since he'd known her, he gave careful consideration to the young woman who was both his co-worker and a steadfast friend, so close that he sometimes thought of her as a surrogate younger sister. She had been a part of his life for so long now, brightening his daily existence and supporting him loyally through some of his darkest times, but in such an unassuming fashion that he had never really recognised how much she had come to mean to him.

He found himself thinking back to the first time he'd met her, upon his return to the police force after Trondheim. She had helped him settle into his new office at the station, keeping up a steady barrage of comments and questions all the while. Her lively chatter had amused him, serving as a distraction both from his nerves and from the pain in his partially healed stump. She had swept his forms and folders and other oddments into order with such a touching eagerness to be helpful that he had barely noticed how much she was sparing him the effort of moving about on his uncomfortable new prosthetic and ungainly crutches. Later that morning she'd brought him a cup of tea – the first of many – and an easy friendship had been born.

But had that been the very first time they'd met? Casting his mind back, he found an even earlier memory, though it was a hazy one – the day he had been discharged from St. Luke's. Jane had failed to fetch him home in a taxi as promised, an early sign of the growing rift in their marriage, so he had been immensely grateful for Mr Foyle's timely offer of a lift. A small gesture, perhaps, but the thoughtfulness behind it had presaged a good relationship with his new superior officer. And Sam, he recalled now, had been there too, her face kind and her hands gentle as she opened the car door for him, patiently steadying his crutches as he manoeuvred his body painfully into the Wolseley's back seat.

And, he realised, she had been the first person he'd confided in about Jane's desertion. He remembered her listening sympathetically, struggling to find words of comfort. But to Milner, just talking about the situation came as a tremendous relief; by the time he walked her home that night, her role as his trusted confidante was sealed. After that evening she had seemed to sense when his spirits were lowest and always tried to cheer him up by coaxing him out after work for a drink, perhaps followed by dinner or the cinema. There had been many times – more, indeed, than he cared to count – when only her companionship had pulled him out of the black fog of depression which threatened to overwhelm him. These outings had naturally trailed off after he'd begun walking out with Edith Ashford; but had he ever stopped to consider just how much he owed to Sam?

Then there had been the dark days after Jane's death, when she had proved her loyalty twice over – first, by her genuine sympathy over the brutal murder of a woman he'd once loved (a sentiment expressed by virtually no-one else in his life), and second by her unhesitating belief in his innocence. Even Edith, who claimed to be in love with him, had harboured suspicions about his guilt. It had been this lack of trust, along with her possessiveness and the increasing pressure for marriage, which had eventually driven him to call a halt to the relationship. After Jane, he had learned to value loyalty above all other virtues.

And it was even due to Sam that he was living here, he realised, looking round his small sitting room. After he'd broken off with Edith, she had noticed him slipping back into his lonely habit of late nights at work. Over drinks at The Kings' Head one evening she had gently urged him to unburden himself and he had found himself confessing his reluctance to return to the empty house now haunted by the ghost of the faithless Jane. "I _didn't_ want her back, but God knows I never wanted any harm to come to her. I can't help thinking that if I'd only let her come home when she asked, she'd still be alive. I know this must sound mad, but sometimes it's as though she's still there – in the kitchen, the bedroom..."

Sam had listened quietly and then, to his surprise, proposed an elegantly simple solution. "Perhaps you ought to move house," she had suggested. "Make a fresh start, you know. Somewhere all your own." He'd been dubious at first, pointing out the unlikelihood of finding anything in the midst of the wartime housing shortage, but once planted, the seed had taken root. He had stumbled upon this place a mere fortnight later while investigating the latest burglary of a food shop in the high street. Mr Frasier, the shopkeeper, had been lamenting his inability to find a trustworthy tenant for the rooms over the shop. "Havin' someone livin' above-stairs might scare off these wretched thieves, but we can't be too careful with all these rationed goods, can we? I'd move back in meself, but wi' five bairns, we'd hardly fit." He was delighted at the prospect of a police sergeant as tenant and the arrangement had proved satisfactory to them both.

The flat was simple and cosy, just sitting room, bedroom and kitchen with high ceilings and plain white walls, and it suited him very well. To the delight of his landlord, the break-ins had ceased abruptly once word of his presence had spread round the neighbourhood, and he was equally pleased to find that his new home offered some unexpected bonuses. Living above the shop meant no more queuing for groceries, as the Frasiers set aside meat, eggs, cheese and the rest of his rations for him. Better still, Mrs Frasier was happy to earn a few extra bob by coming up to "do" for him two or three times a week, cleaning and tidying and often leaving behind some tasty dish to heat up for his dinner. And the place was barely five minutes on foot from the station, significantly shortening the daily walk that had so often made his stump ache in cold or wet weather. Best of all, it was free of the memories that had troubled him in his old house, allowing him to rediscover a fragile inner peace he hadn't known for some time.

So this, too, was yet another debt of gratitude he owed to Sam. Why, he wondered, had he never seen how much he had come to rely on her? Perhaps it was because he'd always thought of her as a girl, not a woman, four or five years behind him in age but aeons younger in terms of life experience. When they'd first met he was already two years married, maimed by war and newly demobbed, while her naïveté and enthusiasm made her seem even younger than she actually was. But she had matured enormously over the years, something else which seemed to have escaped his notice until tonight. The Sam who had accompanied him to _Les Bijoux_ was a woman grown, lovely and self-assured and undeniably desirable. Seeing her in this light had both thrilled and unnerved him.

He sighed and sank down on the sofa, wishing that the evening hadn't ended on such an abrupt and awkward note. It had never been his intention to kiss her, of course, but there was no changing it now. Had she minded, he wondered? He didn't _think_ she had discouraged the embrace, but perhaps she'd been too shocked? Or tipsy? Or … simply too kind to repulse him, knowing how much he'd suffered from Jane's rejection? He recalled a moment when she had moved her hands up to his shoulders – had that been a gentle attempt to push him away? And how would she feel about it tomorrow, once she'd had time to think things over? Would she see it, perhaps, as a betrayal of their friendship?

After all, she had never given him any reason to believe she was interested in him romantically. Nor, if he was to be honest, could he be of certain of his own heart. Oh, he was in no doubt as to his physical attraction to her, but his time with Edith had taught him that affection and desire do not necessarily add up to true love.

Perhaps it was just as well that he was leaving on holiday first thing in the morning. Much as he wanted to set things right with her, he honestly wasn't sure what he'd say just at the moment. He needed time to think things through, to sort out his own feelings. Did he really want to get involved with Sam? And if he did, was there any chance that she might consider him as something more than a friend?

* * *

Over the next fortnight Sam, too, pondered her relationship with Milner – not just their evening at _Les Bijoux_, but everything that had come before it as well.

When she'd first been assigned to the Hastings Constabulary, four long years ago, she had been both eager and nervous. How would she fit into this strange, exclusively male world? Unlike Mr Foyle, who was considerate but never completely shed his mantle of authority, Milner had quickly become a firm friend.

Even though he was still coping with the loss of his leg, he had gone out of his way to help her find her own place within the police station, encouraging her involvement where it was feasible and discreetly guiding her when she was about to put a foot wrong. From the first he'd been protective, keeping an eye on her in a big-brotherly fashion that gave her a welcome sense of security. She remembered how grateful she had been when he'd taken her in after she was bombed out of Mrs Harrison's, badly shaken and with nowhere to stay.

That had been only one of the many, many kindnesses he'd shown her. How much she had appreciated his visits to her in hospital while she'd been recovering from that awful, mysterious illness she'd contracted at Vauxhall Farm! Once she was well enough he'd come nearly every day, bringing her flowers or books, sitting by her bed and keeping her abreast of all the station news. She smiled when she remembered how had generously shared his raffle prize of an onion with her. And with an extra surge of affection she remembered how sweet he'd been after her break-up with Andrew Foyle, what pains he had taken to cheer her up on their memorable visit to Plymouth. She couldn't have asked for a better friend.

Of course, she'd never denied to herself that she found him attractive. Tall and handsome and with lovely grey eyes; what girl wouldn't be taken by his looks? And he was gentle and thoughtful and even-tempered … even a war hero! She had never been able to understand why his wife behaved so appallingly after his amputation. She should be _proud_ to have such a brave husband, the silly woman!

But though she admired him greatly, her feelings for him had never developed into a crush. He simply seemed far beyond her reach – several years older and, of course, married. Even after Jane left, she had known that he still had unresolved feelings for his wife. Besides, the prospect of her father's reaction to her interest in a married man, even a separated one, didn't bear thinking about. Before long she'd started seeing Andrew, then Joe Farnetti, and Milner had eventually taken up with Edith Ashford.

After refusing Joe's proposal, a painful and messy business, she had grown wary of serious entanglements. It was about this time she'd moved to Priory Lane and had taken to socialising with Ruth, Lesley and Fiona and their circle. It was safer, she decided. And though she had enjoyed the company of plenty of attractive young men, she hadn't developed special feelings for anyone. Oh, she'd permitted kisses from a few especially nice fellows, but had never been tempted to let things get out of hand.

But with Paul she had felt no such restraint. (And why, she wondered, was she suddenly thinking of him as "Paul" when for more than four years he'd always been "Milner"?) She wasn't quite sure how she'd ended up in his arms, but she had been electrified by the sensation of his lean, hard body pressed against hers. She couldn't remember feeling such a powerful attraction to any man, not even Andrew. She blushed to remember how she'd melted into his kiss, so tender yet so passionate, stirring something deep inside she'd never suspected was there. It had felt so utterly, incredibly _right_ …

Until that drunken fool two doors down had thrown open his front door and spoilt everything.

And then … "I'm sorry," he had said. Sorry for _what_, exactly? For kissing her? Did he mean he regretted the impulse, that it hadn't meant to him what it had to her? Had he simply been carried away by the romantic circumstances – the champagne, the moonlight, their heady mood – and lost his head? Was it foolish and immature of her to attach so much significance to what had been, after all, only a momentary lapse of propriety? Perhaps, she though sadly, she was just too unsophisticated to interest him as anything other than a chum.

_I wonder what will happen when he gets back from his holiday?_ she wondered for the umpteenth time. Things were bound to be awkward between them. Would he apologise again for kissing her, or try to make light of the incident? Or would he act as though it had never happened? And how should _she_ behave? She might try to mask her feelings, but she doubted, after that ardent interlude in the darkness of Priory Lane, that she would find it possible to go back to thinking of him merely as a friend.

* * *

Milner enjoyed his holiday, the first proper one he'd had since the war started. It was good to get away from the ceaseless round of crimes and cases that had dominated his waking hours for the past four years. However, he couldn't in fairness call his fortnight _relaxing_, thanks largely to the presence of his three-year-old nephew Jack. After half a day of shyness, the little boy had discovered the delights of having an attentive and affectionate adult male in the house. With his uncle he could run and romp and engage in all the roughhousing that was forbidden with his mother and baby sister. "Unkapoll" became Jack's instant hero, taking him for rambles round the countryside, making tiny boats to sail on the pond, teaching him to bowl a cricket ball, wrestling with him, carrying him about on his shoulders. His uncle was equally delighted, though the boy's ceaseless energy amazed and exhausted him.

It was good, too, to spend time with Penny and to see her in her role as a mother. They had been close growing up, but it had been so long since he'd seen her that they had a lot of catching up to do. There was less time for such things that he'd expected, though, what with the demands of caring for the children. Even after the little ones were in bed for the night, her mother-in-law always sat with them, so it was early in the second week before brother and sister finally found an opportunity for a confidential talk.

Jack had been invited to play at a neighbour's cottage that afternoon while baby Molly napped under her grandmother's watchful eye. Penny suggested a walk in the fine summer weather, so they set off into the wild, rocky beauty of the Peaks.

"I can't help thinking it's ironic, your making inspector now," she remarked, falling into step beside him. "Jane would have been thrilled. It's what she always wanted, you know. But after your leg she was sure it would never happen."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that Jane wanted a husband who could support her in style – or at least in more comfort than she had growing up."

He shot her a reproachful glance. "That hardly seems fair." Jane's parents had run a small, struggling guest house in an unfashionable part of Brighton, the sort of place frequented mostly by the lower classes down from London on bucket-and-spade holidays. "They didn't have an easy time of it, you know. She and Kate worked as chambermaids from the time they were eleven or twelve. Her parents worked their fingers to the bone trying to keep that place going. And after they were forced to sell up she had to go out to work as a hairdresser."

"Exactly. Jane didn't want that kind of life. Why do you think she married you?" He shot her a quizzical glance. "Oh, _Paul_. She wasn't half so interested in you before you made sergeant. Don't you remember?"

"No."

"Well, _I_ do. I've never seen any girl turn round as quickly as she did after you were promoted."

He was frowning. Penny, he knew, had never been particularly fond of his wife. His elder by three years, she had often adopted this sort of patronising tone with him when they were growing up. It had never failed to annoy him, especially since she had so often been proved right in the end. "You never said anything."

"As a matter of fact, I tried. But you paid no attention. Head-over-heels in love. Next thing I knew you'd bought her a ring. After that, it seemed like what was done, was done. Anyway, all water under the bridge now."

He nodded stiffly, thinking back to his courtship of Jane. It had never occurred to him before but now he thought about it, he supposed she had warmed up a good deal after he'd been made up to sergeant. "Yes. Water under the bridge."

They lapsed into silence for a time as their footpath climbed a steep hill. Finally she spoke again. "So what are you brooding about? It can't be your job, not with the promotion. And it's not Jane. So is it … Edith Ashford, by any chance?"

"Edith? No, I told you. That's over. Almost a year ago."

"Who broke it off?"

"I did."

"Why?"

He let out a deep sigh. "It's … complicated, Pen. I'll always be grateful to her, but it just wasn't right. I was in a bad place after Jane left. I didn't think any woman would ever want to be with me again. Edie gave me my confidence back … but in the end I realised it wasn't fair to her. I was fond of her, of course, but I didn't love her. And she expected to marry me."

"I daresay." Penny gave a sharp, ironic little laugh.

"What does that mean?"

"_Expected_ to marry you? Or _demanded_? Oh, I remember Edith. Even as a little girl she always had to have everything her own way. The whole neighbourhood knew it. Very particular and very controlling, that girl. I think you're well rid of her, to tell you the truth." He shot her another quick, appraising glance, once again discomfited by her perspicacity. Penny smiled a tiny, knowledgeable smile and returned to her original question. "So what's on your mind then, lad? Somebody else?"

"Well … actually, yes."

"Who?"

"She's a friend. Someone I know from work. She's called Samantha Stewart."

"Samantha? You mean that girl at the police station?"

"Yes. Mr Foyle's driver. She's been a very good friend. I owe her a great deal … but lately things have been changing between us. I've started thinking about her - well, differently."

"Aaah_._ And is she thinking about you differently too?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, have you considered asking her?"

They had reached the crest of the hill and stopped to catch their breath and take in the view. Now Milner gestured her to sit with him on a nearby rocky outcropping. "It's … difficult. She's such a special friend, very loyal. I honestly don't know what I would have done without her these past few years. I hate to risk ruining things, you see … and then there's her family. She comes from a very sheltered background. Her father's a vicar, quite proper and straight-laced. I can't imagine he'd be pleased at the prospect of her getting involved with someone like me."

"What do you mean, someone like you? Your leg?"

"No, not that. You know … my past. The divorce …"

She looked at him as though he'd taken leave of his senses. "But you _weren't_ divorced, you numbskull. Jane is dead. You're a widower."

"I know, but … I _feel_ divorced, you see. In my heart I divorced Jane long ago, after she left me. I didn't need to wait the three years to know it was over between us. Anyway, I'm not sure it will make much difference to Reverend Stewart when he finds out that we were separated for over two years. I _would_ have divorced her, you know, in a few more months. Isn't the intention as bad as the deed?"

"It sounds to me as though you're borrowing trouble."

"Anyway, it's not just Jane. Her family … they're from another world, Pen. I'm a grammar-school boy, son of a carpenter. Her grandfather was a ruddy _bishop_! How can I even _consider_ …"

His sister looked troubled. "Does any of that matter anymore, really? So many of those class barriers have gone since the war started. And you're doing so well - a respectable career, a bright future, earning a good salary … you shouldn't sell yourself short. The question is, do you think _she'd_ mind any of those things?"

He shook his head. "I … I really don't know." How could he make her understand how it was between himself and Sam? After four years of spending time together on a near-daily basis, they knew each other _so_ well. They could read each other's moods, were familiar with each other's likes and dislikes. Stopping at a pub for lunch, for instance, she would automatically pass him the vinegar to douse his chips while he would slip his pickle onto her plate, knowing they were her favourite. How strange, he thought, that they could be so in tune with each other in some ways, almost like a married couple, and yet he had no idea if she would consider him as a romantic partner.

Penny was watching his face. "Well, Paul, there's only one way to find out."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I've tried in this chapter not only to give a backstory to Paul's marriage to The Evil Jane, but also explain his reasons for ending his relationship with The Scheming Edith, as I think should have been done in canon.

Full disclosure: I simply can't stand Edith, either as written or as portrayed by either actress. She's selfish and manipulative in _Bad Blood_ (lying to try to help her brother), demanding in _Bleak Midwinter_ (pushing Milner for marriage three months into the relationship) and then, as we see, shockingly disloyal to him. What kind of woman can suspect her boyfriend of brutally murdering his estranged wife _and yet excuse it_? She's just not worthy of him!

It was my unhappiness with the way Horowitz resolved Paul's personal life, in fact, that inspired me to write _Catalyst_. He deserves better! So I tried to write him a better resolution than he was given in canon.


	4. Chapter 4: Bombshell

_. _

_._

_Monday 11 September 1944_

Milner arrived at the station especially early on his first morning back from his holiday, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in his stomach. Mr Foyle and Sam weren't due in for more than an hour. As he had expected, his in-tray was piled high with work that had accumulated during his absence – fresh crimes to be investigated, arrest reports, new evidence in ongoing cases. He settled behind his desk and buckled down with a will.

At about half-past eight he glanced up from an arrest report to see the familiar trilby in the corridor, shadowed as usual by the slender figure in brown. His felt his heart turned over.

"Milner! How was your holiday?" Foyle paused in his doorway, hat in hand.

"Very good, sir. Thank you."

"Almost not worth it, though, when you have to come back to all this?" Foyle gestured to the papers spread out in front of him with a wry expression. Milner smiled, noticing that Sam had slipped past her boss and vanished in the direction of the kitchen. "I'd like a word about the Henderson case when you've got a moment …"

"Of course, sir. Be right there." He located the relevant file on his desk and read through it quickly, struggling to concentrate on the typewritten words. _She didn't speak to me, not even to say good morning - didn't even look at me. What does that mean?_

Though the day was young, it was already growing very warm; he hung his suit coat on a peg and straightened his tie before heading for his boss' office. Foyle waved him into the chair facing his desk. "Haven't got much time just now; I'm due in Canterbury at half-ten for a meeting with the Chief Constable. But I wanted to know what you thought about this witness statement …"

Five minutes later the double ring of the telephone interrupted their discussion. Looking faintly harassed, Foyle lifted the receiver. "Yes? … Just a moment, I'll see if she's here …" he lowered the instrument and raised his voice slightly. "Sam?"

She must have been close by because she appeared almost at once, looking flustered. "Yes, sir?"

He gestured at her with the receiver, eyebrows raised. "For you."

She looked startled as she moved to the corner of the desk to take the call. Foyle shot her a reproachful glance, one which communicated wordlessly _You know how I feel about personal telephone calls at work_, before returning his attention to the thorny Henderson case. Milner's heart had begun to pound and he had to drag his eyes away from the girl, now standing less than an arm's length from him.

Seconds later, their discussion was interrupted again by a sharp sound from Sam, less a gasp than a quick, hollow intake of breath. Though quiet, the noise was strangely acute; both men looked up to see the colour draining from her face. "Oh, _no_ …" she murmured hoarsely, and swayed where she stood as though she'd suddenly lost her balance.

The Henderson case was forgotten in an instant. Foyle and Milner rose to their feet, both realising that something was terribly wrong.

She was barely aware of Foyle plucking the receiver from her stiffened hand, of Milner cupping her elbows from behind, guiding her gently back to one of the chairs by the window. She saw his concerned face bending close to hers, heard his voice asking, "Sam? Sam, _what's happened_?" But her mind was spinning so rapidly that she could make no sense of the words. Milner saw her lips move, forming a silent word he couldn't make out.

Foyle, meanwhile, was speaking urgently into the telephone. His face tightened as his listened, his eyes on his driver. "Yes. Right, on our way," he said curtly and rang off.

Black spots were dancing before Sam's eyes now, her vision contracting into an ever-narrower tunnel of light. A strange buzzing sound filled her ears; she couldn't get enough air, her chest felt as though it were being squeezed by invisible iron bands –

Suddenly Foyle was there, dropping to one knee beside her. Expertly he put a hand at the back of her neck and pushed her head down to her knees. "Her parents," he murmured to the younger man. "Flying bomb. Get her a whisky …"

Milner stared at him in horror for an instant before reacting to the command. His feet carried him automatically to the locked cabinet where they kept the medicinal spirits, his mind refusing to take in what he'd just heard. _Her parents? Oh, dear God. Surely not _both_ of them …_

When he hurried back to the office Sam was sitting upright, her face slightly less pale and damp with a fine sheen of perspiration. Foyle, still kneeling next to her, took the glass and held it to her lips. She tried to turn away, but when he said firmly, "Drink it, Sam," she took a reluctant sip. "Again. That's right."

She looked more alert once the whisky was gone, though still deeply shocked. "Sam, listen to me," Foyle said gently, setting the glass on the floor and covering her hand with his. "I'm so sorry. Your mother is gone. But your father is still alive, in hospital. You should go to him, don't you think?"

She responded with a single tight nod and he rose, helping her to her feet. Milner followed the pair up the corridor, forgetting in his haste to snatch up his hat and coat from his office. At the front desk Foyle gestured to one of their newest recruits, a spotty, bespectacled youth called Hawkins. "Y-yes, sir?" stammered the lad as he sprang to his feet, terrified at being addressed directly by the Chief Superintendent.

"Do you drive?"

"Y-yes, sir!"

"Come. You're needed."

In the car park Sam dipped a shaking hand in her pocket for the car keys, but Foyle had no intention of letting her behind the wheel. "Thank you, Sam, I'll look after it," he said, plucking them smoothly from her fingers. He passed them to the wide-eyed Cadet Hawkins, who was much too intimidated to ask why the Chief Superintendent's driver was being ushered into the back seat of his car. Within moments, the last door had slammed shut and the Wolseley had pulled away.


	5. Chapter 5: Another Blow

.

.

The drive from Hastings to Brighton, where Sam's father was in hospital, seemed to take forever, though Milner knew the distance to be no more than forty miles. Inside the car the tension was palpable; no one spoke except for Foyle's murmured directions to the nervous young police cadet behind the wheel. In the back seat Sam sat frozen, her face set, every muscle taut, her body leaning forward slightly as though to urge them on faster. Glancing down, Milner noticed her hand balled in a tight fist on the leather seat between them. Without thinking he covered it with his own; she immediately seized hold and clung tightly, as though desperate for reassurance. Wordlessly he returned the pressure, lacing her fingers with his for the rest of the journey. It seemed the only comfort he could offer at the moment.

When at last Cadet Hawkins drew the Wolseley up before the ugly Victorian brick façade of St. Mary's, Sam abruptly released her grip and scrambled out, taking the front steps two at a time. Foyle and Milner hurried to catch her up, arriving in the hospital's front hall just in time to hear a nurse say, "Second floor, miss. Operating theatre - "

They stayed on her heels as she flew up two dingy flights of stairs and down a corridor, coming to a halt before another nurse. "Reverend Stewart? Iain Stewart?" she gasped breathlessly. The woman hesitated, looking past them to a white-coated figure who had just emerged from a door. The man stepped forward at once and Sam turned to him, repeating her father's name in a voice that shook a little.

"Reverend Stewart. Yes," said the doctor, a bald, weary-looking man in his late sixties. "Are you the daughter?" At her nod he continued, "I'm sorry, Miss. It's not good news. He passed away about twenty minutes ago."

Sam recoiled slightly with a soft choking cry; Foyle and Milner instinctively moved closer, flanking her on either side. There was a moment of stunned silence as the three absorbed the blow. Milner could think only of Sam, of what this loss would mean to her. His arm slipped protectively behind her back, bracing himself for her reaction – tears or hysterics or even another fainting spell. But she remained quite still as the doctor continued gently, "We did everything we could for him, but I'm afraid the internal injuries were too grave. He never regained consciousness." He shook his head in what seemed to be genuine distress. "Such a _dreadful_ shock when he was brought in this morning. I knew him well, you see. We all did. He always visited his parishioners regularly here in hospital. Such a kind man. Always thinking of others …"

Sam nodded haltingly, her body rigid with shock. But after a long moment, drawing upon some inner core of strength, she drew in a deep breath and asked shakily, "Can I … can I see him?"

Milner stiffened. Sam may have witnessed a lot of death over the past few years, but surely this was a trauma better avoided. Fortunately the doctor was of the same mind. "Oh, I don't think that's a very good idea, Miss," he replied, looked stricken. "He's … that is, it seems to have been a roof beam. Fractured skull, and his chest was … well. By rights he should have been killed instantly, but he was such a fit man, so strong in body as well as in spirit … he didn't let go of life easily."

Milner exchanged glances with Foyle and saw his own thoughts reflected on his superior's face: these were details Sam did not need to hear, especially not just now. Foyle's eyes flicked from Milner back up the corridor toward the stair from which they had emerged. After four years of working together his assistant had no difficulty interpreting the unspoken message. He tightened his arm round the girl and drew her gently away, saying quietly, "That's enough, Sam. Come on …"

He looked round for some sort of secluded waiting area but seeing nothing, led her back to the stair, which was at least enclosed and somewhat private. They halted before an open window on the landing and she turned to him, burying her face in his shoulder. All thoughts of pursuing a romantic relationship with her had fled his mind; he could think only of the enormity of her loss. He could feel her trembling, her breath coming in sharp gasps. "_Dad_," she whispered. "Oh, my God, _not_ Dad too. This can't be happening. I should have been here …"

"Oh, _Sam_," he murmured helplessly. He could find no words to comfort her; conventional phrases of condolence seemed utterly inadequate, even trite, under the circumstances. All he could do was to hold her close, her face hidden against his shirtfront, his hand gently stroking her back.

After a minute or two he looked up and saw that Foyle had joined them, biting his lip as he so often did when worried or upset. Milner relaxed his embrace and Sam lifted her head. Her stricken expression was unchanged but there were still no tears. "I'm so very sorry, Sam," Foyle said quietly. Milner had rarely heard so much emotion in his boss' voice. "Listen, I think it's best if we leave now. Nothing we can do here. Where do you want to go?"

"Home, please," the girl choked, and both men knew which _home_ she meant. Not the boarding house where she'd eaten and slept for the past few years, but the village where she had been born and raised. Milner shot the DCS a quick concerned glance which telegraphed _Is that wise, sir_? Foyle's unspoken response, communicated with a tightening of his lips and a tiny shrug, was _Where else? If it's what she wants …_ He nodded his approval of Sam's request and gestured the pair to precede him back downstairs.

* * *

The Wolseley was just as quiet on the short drive to Lyminster, but now the tension inside the car had been replaced by a sense of numbed disbelief. _Maybe it's all a mistake_, Sam was thinking as she sat motionless in the back seat. _What if it was some other house that was bombed? Maybe we'll get there and Mother and Dad will come out of the house and everything will be fine … oh, please, God, let it all have been some horrible mistake …_ Beside her, Milner ached to touch her, to try to comfort her, but sensing her need to withdraw into herself for a time, thought it best to let her be.

She sat still and silent until the car tyres crunched on the gravel of St. Stephen's Lane. Ahead loomed the graceful spire and beyond it, just past the churchyard, stood the solid redbrick vicarage. The front of the house seemed intact except for broken windows, Milner observed, but the rear … even from the road he could see that the back wall of the house had been blown away, taking part of the roof with it.

The sight stirred the girl to sudden life. Even before the car had drawn to a halt she had leapt out without warning and was running toward what remained of the only home she'd ever known. Her companions again hastened after her, calling her name, but she paid no heed. Foyle quickly outdistanced the younger man, who had been seated on the opposite side of the car. The DCS caught up with his driver dodging rubble in the back garden, clearly determined to enter the ruined house. "Sam, _don't_," he said sharply, catching hold of her from behind her and pulling her back. "It's not safe."

"I don't _care_!" she cried fiercely, struggling to break free of his grip. But he refused to release her, turning her firmly round so her back was to the carnage and giving her a gentle shake to emphasise his words.

"Listen to me. It's too late. There's nothing you can do for them now."

She stopped resisting as the horrible finality came crashing down on her. Milner rounded the corner of the house just in time to see her sag into the older man's arms with an anguished wail, giving way to tears at last.

He froze, shocked by the fierce wave of jealousy surging through him at the sight. Some primitive part of his being wanted to storm over and wrench the pair apart, to assert that he and he _alone_ could claim the right to comfort Sam. The logical part of his brain protested that his reaction was ridiculous – he was well aware that she and Foyle were close in their own way, that indeed she looked up to the DCS as something of a second father – but the knowledge did nothing to allay the churning in his gut. He struggled to master his possessiveness, reminding himself that he had far too much respect for his superior to act upon the impulse.

He forced himself to turn his face away, focusing instead on the devastation left by the bomb. Though he had seen many war-damaged houses over the past five years, he was unable to maintain his usual police officer's detachment this time. He had visited in this home, had even passed a night once under its roof, and well remembered the genuine warmth and welcome he had found there. Now broken glass, smashed furniture and shattered bric-a-brac were scattered across the ruined vegetable garden amid a rubble of bricks, roof slates and chunks of plaster. A large section of collapsed wall, still adorned with cornflower-blue wallpaper flecked with sprigs of daisies, lay atop the crushed remains of a skirted dressing table. His eyes travelled next to a crumpled lampshade trimmed with ivory lace, a dented mahogany jewellery box, a dainty pink cushion embroidered with violets - the trappings of a young girl's bedroom. Sam's room, he realised with a fresh surge of horror. Completely destroyed. He vaguely recalled her mentioning that her bedroom stayed warm all winter thanks to the constant heat of the Aga in the kitchen below – the ruins of which lay overturned at his feet. _Dear God, what if she'd been home this morning?_

He turned his gaze to the exposed upper storey, where only a few remaining bits of blue-papered wall obscured his view of the interior of the house. The collapsed roof hung low over the passage, but between the sagging beams he could see the telltale dark stains marking the spot where Iain Stewart had been felled. He cursed fruitlessly under his breath, hoping they could keep Sam from noticing - after four years with the police force, there was no chance that she would fail to recognise spilled blood. He averted his eyes, listening to the girl's broken sobs and feeling nearly as helpless as he had on that long-ago day when he'd woken up in hospital to find half his leg gone.

* * *

It was not long before the residents of Lyminster began to join them, attracted by the strange car parked at the vicarage gate. There were many red eyes and grief-stricken faces among the villagers, who instinctively rallied together in the wake of the tragedy. They met Pruitt, church sexton and ARP warden; his buxom wife, the vicarage charlady; the postmistress, the butcher, the greengrocer, and the local doctor and his wife. Sam, naturally, was the focus of their attention, so it wasn't difficult for Foyle to draw Pruitt aside to quietly question him about the bombing. Milner came to join them as the man began his tale, turning his tweed cap in work-worn hands as he spoke.

"It come over 'bout half-past eight, guvnor. No warning – no sirens. Just heard this queer buzzing noise coming closer and closer. We didn't know what it was at first – never seen one of them doodle-bugs round here before. Oh, we've heard tell of 'em in the paper and on the wireless, you know, but mostly they fall over in Kent an' suchlike, don't they?"

Foyle nodded briefly, his face grim. The menace of the flying bombs, which had commenced without warning just a week after the D-day landings back in June, had been directed primarily at London. A good many had fallen short of their target, especially in the first weeks, but most of these had landed in Kent and eastern Sussex, fifty miles or more to the east of here. "True," he said heavily. "We've had a few round Hastings, but not many have come down even that far west. This one must have gone badly off course."

"We heard it land, the wife and I – she goes up to the house most mornings round nine, to cook and set the place to rights. We'd seen the vicar pass our cottage not ten minutes before, coming back from his walk. He took one every morning, you know, rain or shine. Called it his 'constitutional'." Milner nodded, recalling how he had joined Reverend Stewart on one of his vigorous morning walks the time he'd stopped the night with them.

"Took us quite a time to get to them, poor souls," the little man continued. "Half the roof had fallen in on the stairs; I had to get help to clear it away. They were both upstairs. Vicar was just at the top, trapped under a bloody great roof beam. He was still alive, but I could see it wouldn't be for long. His chest was crushed. Mrs Stewart was still in her bed; the wardrobe fell over on her. Great, heavy oak one, it was; took four of us to lift it off her. If she'd been able to get herself under the bed she might have survived, but with her poor knees, she didn't have a chance." At Foyle's questioning look, he added, "Vicar's wife had the rheumatism, guvnor. Bad. She couldn't get about easily. Every morning after his walk he'd take her up a cup of tea and help her get up and dress." Milner remembered Mr Stewart confiding in him about his wife's arthritic joints on that long-ago morning walk. "I 'spect he went up to help her when he heard that cursed thing coming, 'stead of trying to take shelter." He blinked back tears. "Poor vicar. Such a good man. Always thinking of others, right to the end."

Thanking the man for his efforts, Foyle and Milner turned back to Sam, who was clutching a handkerchief and looking quite overwhelmed in the midst of a circle of concerned village ladies. The doctor's wife, who seemed to be the natural authority figure among the women, was preparing to sweep the girl off to her own house for a restoring cup of tea. Foyle politely declined the invitation to join them. Seeing that his driver was in good hands, he judged the time had come for Milner and himself to withdraw and leave her in the care of these kind souls who had known her from infancy.

Moving close enough to catch her attention, he told her quietly, "We're going to leave now, Sam. You let these people look after you, all right? We'll be back in a few days for the …" he broke off awkwardly, choking back the word _funeral_, but she seemed to understand. Her tear-filled eyes flicked from his face to Milner's, their eyes locking for a long moment of silent communion before she allowed herself to be led away.

Milner followed his superior officer reluctantly back to the car. He longed to stay by Sam's side but knew he had he had no claim to such a public role in her life -– he was not her husband, nor even her beau. "Poor girl," Foyle remarked sadly, turning back for a last look at the house. "Her parents and her home all in one blow. She'll never live here again."

Milner shot the older man a sharp look over the roof of the car. "But surely the house can be rebuilt someday, can't it?"

"I expect so, but she won't live in it. The next vicar will take up residence."

Another shock; Milner had forgotten that the house belonged to the Church. _Then she's truly homeless now,_ he thought as he slid into the back seat and slammed the door, _quite on her own._ A disloyal thought niggled its way into his consciousness: _Perhaps I'd have more of a chance now. There's no one left to voice parental objections …_

He was immediately disgusted with himself._ Bloody hell, what's the matter with me? They aren't even buried yet and I'm already scheming to persuade her to go against their wishes!_

What made it worse was that he had genuinely liked and respected Reverend Stewart. They had only met a handful of times but the clergyman's kindness, his deep faith and his strength of character had deeply impressed Milner._ No, it's hopeless. How can I possibly ask Sam to dishonour her parents' memory by asking her to do something that they would have believed to be wrong?_

It was only then that he fully recognised that the last of his doubts had vanished. He _was_ in love with her; he could feel it down to the very core of his being. What had begun as a friendship had matured into something deep and enduring, at least on his part. How ironic that he should only come to this realisation _now_, when there was no longer any possibility of winning her father's blessing!


	6. Chapter 6: The Funeral

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_Friday 15 September 1944_

Four days later they were back in Lyminster for the funeral.

The late-summer heat wave had finally broken, giving way to heavy air and dark, low-hanging clouds which hinted at an impending storm. The sombre weather couldn't have been better suited to the occasion, Milner thought as he alighted from the car, straightening his black necktie. Wordlessly he and Foyle crossed the churchyard and entered the solid Norman nave of St. Stephen's, removing their hats at the church steps.

Though they had arrived some twenty minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, they found more than half the pews already occupied. Taking seats near the back, they listened to the soft peal of the organ as the sanctuary continued to fill. Eventually Milner gave up his place to an elderly woman and stood in the back of the church with several other men. Looking across the assembled crowd of mourners, he reflected that he'd never seen so many dog-collars in one place. Iain Stewart had been a vicar for some thirty years; despite the difficulties of travel during wartime, dozens of his fellow clergyman had made the effort to be present to pay their last respects.

High above them a single deep bell began to toll and the sound of heavy footsteps told him that the funeral procession had reached the church doors. The congregation rose as one as a tall man wearing the embroidered surplice of a bishop entered, followed by a pair of simple wooden coffins bedecked with wreaths of white roses. Around the church he could hear muffled sobs, but Milner had eyes only for the young woman walking slowly behind the pallbearers, her eyes glued to the coffins.

Sam's face was partly obscured from view by the curving brim of an ugly black felt hat. She wore a rather shabby black frock several sizes too large - on loan, no doubt, from some neighbour, a necessary expediency when clothing was so strictly rationed. The dress was belted tightly to her waist, giving her the waifish appearance of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. Beside her walked her Uncle Aubrey, vicar of another country parish in nearby Hampshire, his ruddy face creased with sorrow.

Milner hardly took his eyes from Sam throughout the service, though he could see little of her beyond the curve of her cheek and the loose copper curls brushing her shoulder. Across the length of the sanctuary he watched her kneel and stand and sit through the prescribed liturgy, scriptures and prayers of the Anglican burial service. So engrossed was he that he paid scant attention to the familiar phrases invoked with such solemn dignity by Iain Stewart's bishop. Despite her uncle's stocky form seated next to her and the scores of mourners packing the church, to him she seemed terribly alone, isolated by her grief. When Aubrey Stewart left her side to deliver the eulogy for his brother, Milner had to fight the impulse to come forward and take his place beside her. He longed to touch her, to break through her isolation and offer her comfort, but could only watch as she bowed her head while her uncle spoke movingly of her father's dedication to the Church, his lifetime of service to his parish and his deep faith in God.

When at last the pallbearers bore their sad burdens back down the aisle he edged forward, hoping that she would notice him as she left the church. But it was too crowded for him to get very near and a good look at her face, glazed and shuttered with grief, told him that she was too overwhelmed to be aware of his presence. Disappointed, he joined the solemn procession filing out of the church and clustering round two freshly dug graves in a quiet corner of the churchyard.

Outside the sky had grown still darker. The first drops of rain began to fall as the coffins were lowered; by the time the bishop concluded the graveside rites it was raining steadily. _We therefore commit their bodies to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life._ Sam dropped the first handful of earth into each grave, then turned her face away. Watching her over the heads of the assembled mourners, Milner felt her pain as though it were his own.

* * *

Custom dictated that the post-funeral gathering should be held in the deceased's home, but as that was not possible in this case the village hall had been pressed into service instead. Long trestle tables covered in white linen lined one side of the room, loaded with an array of cakes, pastries and tea sandwiches. It looked as though every household in the parish had dipped heavily into their week's rations in order to contribute to the funeral reception. In a corner Sam and her Uncle Aubrey received condolences from an unending stream of mourners. Much as he wanted to speak to her, Milner held back from joining the throng. With luck, he hoped, he might snatch a few moments alone with her once the crowd had thinned out.

Accepting a cup of tea from one of the ladies of the Women's Institute, Milner drifted round the hall, speaking briefly to some of the villagers he and Foyle had met a few days before. The DCS, he saw, was already engaged in conversation with the doctor and his wife. He nodded a greeting to Mrs Cox, Sam's landlady from Hastings, who was accompanied by three young women whom he guessed must be her friends Ruth, Fiona and Lesley. As he circulated, always keeping a hopeful eye on the crush around Sam, he caught snatches of conversation here and there. He was struck anew by how universally loved and respected the Stewarts had been, not only in their home parish but far beyond it as well.

* * *

In the end Milner would be disappointed in his hopes for a private word with Sam. After an hour or more the mourners gradually began to disperse, but even now there always seemed to be at least two or three well-meaning souls still hovering round the girl. He could see by her drooping shoulders that the strain of shaking hands and responding politely to the endless expressions of sympathy was beginning to tell on her. Foyle, he was sure, was also waiting until his driver had received the attentions of everyone else before venturing to approach her. In the meantime he had become entangled with Mrs Pruitt, who was reminiscing tearfully about her long connection with "Miss Samantha" and her family. He finally managed to extricate himself politely just as Aubrey Stewart excused himself to escort the bishop to his car. Alone at last, his niece sank gratefully into a chair, her social duties finally discharged.

"Sam." At the sound of her boss' voice she began to rise, but Foyle laid a restraining hand on her arm. "No, no. Don't get up." His eyes were dark with concern.

"Sir! I didn't know you were here." She made a brave attempt at a smile, but Milner thought she had never looked more wretched. To his eyes she seemed utterly lost, as though the foundation of her world had crumbled beneath her - which, of course, it had. Her grief-stricken expression was exacerbated by the hideous black dress, which drained all colour from her face. "It's very kind of you to come all this way …"

"Of course we're here. Said we'd come, didn't we?" Foyle responded gently, giving her a look that was both wry and tender. "Listen, Sam, no need for you to hurry back. I can manage without you for a few weeks. Take as much time as you need, all right?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you. And for coming."

"Of course. Look after yourself."

Her glance shifted to Milner, who rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment as he bent to kiss her cheek. "Come back soon, Sam," he murmured, his voice husky. "We'll be thinking of you."

* * *

On the return journey Milner stared sightlessly at the raindrops running down the car window, his face twisted in a grimace of dissatisfaction. The brief encounter had been such a far cry from what he'd wanted! If _only_ he'd managed a few moments alone with her, he could have taken her in his arms and assured her that he would always be there for her. Obviously the time wasn't right for him to declare his heart, but at least he could have given her some of the support she so badly needed.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. In a few weeks' time she would return to Hastings and then, surely, he would be able to offer her comfort. And in time, perhaps, he would find a way to share the feelings he'd been unable to express today.


	7. Chapter 7: Absence and Grief

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Over the next fortnight, Sam's absence left a gaping hole in the daily life of the Hastings police station. The entire Constabulary felt the loss of her sunny presence, especially in the late afternoons when by long custom she set out tea and biscuits in the station kitchen for any officer who cared to drop by.

Not surprisingly, her absence was felt most keenly by the two detectives who worked most closely with her. Foyle was finding his patience severely tested by his substitute driver, young Cadet Hawkins, who was still so intimidated by the Chief Superintendent that he had yet to string together two sentences in his presence. As the DCS had grown used to discussing his cases with his driver, puzzling out clues aloud and using her as a sounding board for his theories, he found the lad's reticence unexpectedly enervating. He was well aware of the irony of the situation, remembering how annoying he'd found Sam's chatter in the early days. He hadn't realised how accustomed he had grown to her quick mind and her cheery (and, yes, occasionally _cheeky_) remarks. Against all odds this sheltered vicar's daughter had managed to make herself an indispensable part of his team – and a valued companion as well.

But if Foyle found himself missing his driver, it was nothing to what Milner was feeling. Time seemed to creep by with agonising slowness as Sam occupied his thoughts day and night. How, he wondered, was she bearing up in the wake of the tragedy? Was she still in Lyminster, or had her uncle taken her to stay with him in Hampshire? And how soon might she reasonably be expected to return to Hastings? She had not been in touch with anyone at the station since the funeral, and as Foyle had granted her indefinite leave there was no telling how long she might stay away. Milner did his best to block out such worries and concentrate on his work, but he found it far from easy.

Late one afternoon he wandered disconsolately into the kitchen, though he knew there would be no fresh pot of tea awaiting him there. After a fortnight of neglect the little room was a sorry sight – dirty cups and saucers filled the sink and a crumpled packet of tea had been discarded on the draining board, which was in need of a good scrubbing. A biscuit tin and the sugar bowl lay empty on the crumb-littered table. He gazed at the clutter in dismay. Sam had taken over this room as her special province not long after her arrival at the station four years ago, and she had always assumed a quiet pride in keeping it tidy. With a pang he noticed her cap and driving gloves tossed casually on her makeshift desk in the corner, left behind when they had rushed off to her father's bedside on that dreadful morning.

Instinctively his feet carried him across the room and he reached out to pick up a glove almost reverentially. It was cool between his fingers, the soft brown leather worn with use. He could picture these gloves tucked into Sam's belt, expertly manoeuvring the steering wheel, being twisted between her hands when she was anxious or impatient. And then, without warning, other images were crowding his mind: the red-gold hair escaping its pins to curl against the back of her neck … her quicksilver smile … the scent she had been wearing on the night he'd kissed her … the feel of her lips moving under his …

The memories were too intense, cutting like a knife through his vitals. He dropped the glove on the table by its mate and turned away, then froze abruptly at the sight of his superior officer in the doorway.

Foyle's gaze swept over the dishevelled little room before their eyes met for a long moment. Neither spoke, but Milner could read the older man's thoughts as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud: _we need her back._

* * *

_Monday 2 October 1944_

Yet another week would pass before Sam returned from her compassionate leave. But when she finally reported for duty, Milner's office was empty and dark.

"Special assignment," Foyle explained to her as she drove him to court to give evidence in an embezzlement case her first morning back. "No surprise, really, since his promotion. Knew I wouldn't keep him long after he'd made Inspector."

"You mean he's … he's been transferred? _Permanently_?" The young woman was unable to disguise her shock and dismay.

"No, no," Foyle assured her. "Not according to the Assistant Commissioner, at any rate. It's an undercover case, some sort of cloak-and-dagger business. Don't know where. He got a call from London last Thursday and left straight away."

"And … how long …"

He shook his head. "Don't know, Sam. Until he cracks it, I expect."

She nodded, tight-lipped, as she drew the car up to the kerb at the courthouse. Foyle gave her a quick, searching glance before he got out. It was a pity, he thought, that Milner should have been called away from Hastings just now. Being handpicked by the AC for an undercover assignment certainly boded well for the young man's career, of course, but for Sam's sake the timing was unfortunate.

The Chief Superintendent was well aware that his driver and his sergeant had long been fast friends. She had supported him loyally ever since he'd returned to the police force from the Army, maimed in spirit as well as in body, and he had reciprocated with a big-brotherly protectiveness and affection. Foyle had been pleased by this, as it could only strengthen the trust which he believed so essential between police colleagues.

Foyle, of course, was also very fond of Sam, but his relationship with her was inevitably different. In his role as the boss, the issuer of orders (and the occasional reprimand), he was never entirely able to shed his mantle of authority. This position, coupled with the generation that separated them, ensured that he would never enjoy the same sort of relaxed friendship with her that Milner did. So while he would do his best to look out for her, of course, he suspected that he might not be her best source of comfort just now. _Hope he comes back soon_, he thought as he climbed the courthouse steps.

* * *

But the weeks slipped by and Milner did not return to Hastings. Nor was there any word from him; it was as though he had vanished into thin air. Foyle asked the AC about the assignment, but was told only that it was highly confidential and that he should not expect to hear from Milner until the case was concluded. The DCS was therefore forced to let the matter rest. He knew better than to try to make his own discreet inquiries and risk blowing the new inspector's cover.

As the days grew shorter and the autumn chill deepened, Foyle's concern for his driver mounted. While she fulfilled her duties as scrupulously as ever, knocking at his door every morning promptly at a quarter past eight and obediently ferrying him hither and yon, it was painfully clear how deeply the tragedy had affected her. She did her best to put on a brave face, but often seemed unable to sustain the effort for long. At such times she would lapse into a reclusive silence, showing little of her customary interest in his cases or in the day-to-day life of the station. The contrast between the naïve, eager girl who had appeared at his office door four years ago and this withdrawn, listless young woman could not have been starker.

No stranger to grief himself, Foyle understood only too well what she was going through. He was well aware that the girl's sense of self was deeply rooted in her home and family, especially in the father she spoke of so frequently; to lose it all in a single stroke had been a truly devastating blow. Foyle did his best to buoy her spirits, giving her what moral support he could in his quiet way. He had always been a considerate employer, but he spoke to her now with an unaccustomed gentleness and tried to show her small kindnesses whenever possible, like treating her to lunch or tea and sending her home earlier in the evenings. But such gestures, he felt, counted for little when set against the enormity of her loss.

* * *

As the weeks turned into months Sam came to an unpleasant realisation. Grief, she had discovered, was a physical pain. _How is it possible,_ she wondered bleakly_, that I could have reached the age of twenty-six without knowing that?_ As a vicar's daughter she had watched her father counsel the bereaved for years, but she had never suspected the tangible effects of mourning upon the body. Sometimes it manifested itself as a throbbing headache, a tightness in her chest or a persistent fatigue which no amount of rest seemed to cure. Most often, however, it was a hollow, dull ache in the pit of her stomach which drove away any interest in food. Sleep was her only refuge from the malaise, and she found herself falling into bed earlier and earlier each night, desperate to escape her anguish of body and spirit.

And on top of everything, Milner's unexpected absence had come as a further shock. She had thought of him so often during the agonising days she'd spent in Lyminster, salvaging what possessions she could from her family home. She hadn't realised how much she had been looking forward to seeing him until she'd returned to find him gone. Not that she'd expected anything from him other than friendship, she told herself firmly – the stolen kiss in the darkness of Priory Lane had obviously been an aberration best forgotten – but he'd always been such a steadfast, loyal chum that she found she missed him greatly. Sam had worked as a police driver long enough to understand that the circumstances were doubtless beyond the new inspector's control, but she couldn't help but feel as though yet another prop of her life had been ripped from beneath her without warning.


	8. Chapter 8: Home Again

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_Sunday 24 December 1944, approaching twilight_

The brief daylight of early winter was waning fast as Detective Inspector Paul Milner turned his steps toward home, flinching occasionally as frigid gusts of wind buffeted rain at his face. As he walked, he drank in the familiar sights and sounds: the cries of gulls hanging low round the clustered rooftops, the tinge of salt in the air, the open sky over the Channel, heavy now with cloud. It was good to be home.

He was very glad to be back in Hastings at last. The undercover assignment he had just completed had been the most challenging, most dangerous operation he'd ever undertaken. He had been tasked with flushing out a black-market ring stealing cargo from Liverpool warehouses. The case had demanded stealth, patience and intuition, but he had persevered and in the end had put eleven racketeers behind bars. He had reached home late Thursday evening after a much-delayed journey, the AC's words of commendation ringing in his ears. Pleased though he was by the results of his efforts, he was more than ready to pick up the abandoned threads of his life.

Foremost among these, of course, was Sam. He had had no inkling when he'd been summoned to London that the case would take him away for so long. During his time in Merseyside she had never been far from his thoughts. He'd tried several times to write to her, but without success. Declaring his heart seemed wildly inappropriate in the circumstances, especially since he had no idea if his feelings were reciprocated, yet to address her merely as a concerned friend felt superficial and even dishonest. He had been unable to find a satisfactory middle ground. Moreover, he knew that to enter into an ongoing correspondence was risky while he was undercover. Anxious as he was about her, he realised that matters between them were best left until his return.

But once again his hopes had been frustrated. Upon inquiring after her at the station his first morning back, Mr Foyle had informed him that the girl had already left town for Christmas. "Sent her home yesterday," the DCS had said as he settled himself behind his desk. "Things were quiet enough for me to spare her."

Milner's heart sank. After more than three months apart, to have missed her by only a day … then he reflected on his superior's words. "_Home_?" he asked wonderingly.

"To her uncle," Foyle clarified. "In Hampshire. Thought she could use a bit of a break."

"How is she?" he asked soberly, his voice low.

Foyle had hesitated, rubbing his chin and frowning in a way that spoke volumes. "Well … going to take time, isn't it? Early days yet. It's the first Christmas …"

Milner had nodded tersely. It was only to be expected that this Christmas would be especially difficult for Sam. He hoped she would be able to find comfort from spending the time with her uncle. He was greatly disappointed to have missed her, but there was nothing to be done about it until after the holiday.

So now, two days later, he was coming home from an afternoon spent with his sister's family at St. Leonards, helping them trim their Christmas tree. He would return tomorrow for Christmas dinner, as Penny's tiny cottage afforded no space for overnight guests. It would be good to get back to his little flat, he thought, to draw the curtains against the dark and the cold and spend a quiet evening by his own fireside.

He quickened his pace, turning up his collar against the icy gusts and thrusting gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets. It had been raining steadily all afternoon, but from the falling temperatures and the pewter cast of the sky he guessed that it might soon turn to snow. Very fitting for Christmas Eve.

With dark approaching, there were few people still out in the street. A soldier passed him on a bicycle, huffing slightly as he pedalled up the steep grade. A minute later a stout matron with an umbrella crossed the road in front of the chemist, her arms laden with parcels. On the opposite pavement several schoolboys cavorted past with a football, their faces glowing with high spirits and exercise. Some distance ahead of him he could see a female figure in a nondescript brown coat toiling up the hill, suitcase in hand. Her back was to him, head bent low against the driving rain.

As she reached the crest a sudden gust caught the woman full in the face, tearing off her hat. He saw her make a wild grab for it and miss. As the wayward headgear skittered along the pavement toward him he bent and scooped it up. He straightened just as she swung round, bright copper curls tossing wildly in the wind. Even before his brain consciously registered what he was seeing, his insides lurched with a jolt of recognition that stopped him dead in his tracks. "_Sam?"_ he murmured in disbelief.


	9. Chapter 9: Christmas Eve

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**Part Nine: Christmas Eve**

The two stared at each other for a long moment, both frozen to the spot. Sam looked as astonished as he felt. He saw her lips form a single syllable - his Christian name, perhaps? Then Milner's long legs closed the dozen yards of pavement between them in a few swift strides. "Sam! What are you doing here?" He quelled the impulse to sweep her into his arms, prudently substituting a warm handclasp and a kiss on the cheek.

"I … I didn't know you were back," she replied, setting down her case and returning the greeting with a peck of her own.

"Got home a couple of days ago. But I thought you'd gone to your uncle's for Christmas?"

She averted her gaze, the dark eyes shuttering over a trifle. "Yes, well, I did, but … I came back."

"Why?"

She shrugged evasively, a gesture which almost immediately turned into a shiver. He suddenly realised that she was very wet and that the fingers he was gripping were bare and stiff with cold. Clearly she was in need of shelter, warmth and a sympathetic ear, all of which he was only too happy to provide. But where? Her Priory Lane digs were nearly a mile away. No restaurant was likely to be open on Christmas Eve, and he certainly didn't fancy the hurly-burly of a pub.

The solution was obvious. His insides quailed a little with excitement and nerves, but he plunged ahead. "Listen, you're half-frozen. We should get you inside, somewhere warm. My place isn't far and I've a fire all laid. Nice hot cup of tea?" At her startled nod he picked up her case and took her by the arm, guiding her gently but firmly to his little flat above the shop in the high street.

* * *

His hand shook slightly as he poured tea into two cups. Steeling himself to calm down, he stirred a small measure of his sugar ration into each. After all these months of thinking of her, worrying about her, longing for her … to be reunited with Sam at last! Better still, to be with her, alone and uninterrupted, in the privacy of his own home! It seemed akin to a miracle. The romantic possibilities of the situation tantalised him, but he pushed such thoughts firmly away. Much as he wanted to take her in his arms, to kiss her long and lovingly, he must be very careful not to overstep the bounds of propriety. It was only too clear, knowing her as well as he did, that she was deeply upset, but he was equally sure that she needed a _friend_, someone to listen and offer comfort as she had so often done for him. Surely only the worst sort of cad would try to take advantage of a woman in mourning. No, better not to touch her at all, because of what touching could lead to ...

He carried the tea through to the sitting room, where he found Sam on the hearthrug warming herself at the cheerful blaze. She had changed into dry stockings and shoes and smoothed her wind-tousled hair and sat now with arms wrapped loosely round upraised knees, gazing thoughtfully into the dancing flames. She accepted the mug with a murmur of thanks, cupping her hands round it to savour its warmth. He was tempted to join her on the floor but, remembering his resolve, resisted the impulse and settled himself on the sofa, positioning himself so that he could study her surreptitiously as he sipped his own tea.

Her appearance had altered subtly during the months they'd been apart. Her face had gained a new maturity, the last traces of girlhood erased by sorrow. There were faint smudges beneath her eyes, shadows of a sadness that made his heart ache. Her features seemed more finely drawn than he remembered, enhanced, perhaps, by her lavender jumper. So different to the usual dull brown of her uniform, the soft yet vivid colour lent her skin a delicate, almost porcelain cast. Her hair fell in loose waves about her face, gleaming gold where the firelight touched it. Despite her grief, he thought her lovelier than ever.

She broke his reverie, looking up at him with a small smile. "This is much better. The train was freezing – the only compartment with any space had a broken window, and even then I had to stand most of the way. And the station at Leavenham was cold too. I feel as though I'm finally beginning to thaw out."

"Glad I ran into you," he replied, striving to keep his tone light. "What made you come back, anyway?"

Her gaze shifted away, back to the cheerfully crackling fire. "It was – well, it's a long story, really. It doesn't matter."

He frowned, his concern aroused by this uncharacteristic evasiveness. "You didn't quarrel with your uncle, did you?"

"No, of course not. Nothing like that. Uncle Aubrey was very kind. And it _was_ good that I went." It sounded as though she were trying to convince herself. "We saw Dad's solicitor in Brighton, finished up all the estate business – Uncle was executor, you know. He took care of everything for me. There's an annuity, nothing grand but enough for me to live on, and quite a lot of war bonds. It was good to get everything settled and done with. But afterward I just …" she trailed off and shook her head.

No wonder she hadn't been able to face Christmas after that. Thinking it better to steer the conversation to a less sensitive topic, he asked casually, "So … are you expected you at your digs for dinner, then? I've a meat pie my landlady left me. Plenty for two …"

She looked at him gratefully. "That's very kind of you. No, I'm not expected back. There's nobody home, actually. All gone away for Christmas."

No one home at all? The idea of her spending the night alone in an empty boarding house was unthinkable. "But won't the house be cold?" he asked. "Look, why don't you just stay here tonight? You can use the bedroom."

She looked a bit shocked. "I couldn't possibly – what about you?"

He ran a hand over the tartan blanket folded over the back of the sofa. "I'll sleep out here. I often do, anyway."

"Do you? Why?"

"It's a very comfortable sofa. Closer to the fire, too. It's fine, Sam. You won't be putting me out, I promise." He didn't add that he was often unable to face sleeping alone in the big old-fashioned four-poster bed, the empty space next to him a silent rebuke, mocking his loneliness. The sofa had quickly become his favourite spot in the furnished flat. Longer and deeper than most, its well-stuffed cushions could accommodate his length comfortably whether sitting or reclining.

"Are you sure?" she asked, still sounding a bit uncertain.

"Of course. No one will see you, and I won't mention it to anyone, of course. And just think of how much fuel we'll be saving," He added this last with a teasing twinkle – after all, it was usually _she_ who was preoccupied with regulations like fuel restrictions – and was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.

"Very well. Just as long as you never tell my fa- " she broke off abruptly, her smile vanishing like a blown-out candle flame. He had no trouble finishing the sentence.

"Listen, Sam," he said gently, setting his teacup aside and leaning forward to emphasise his words. "I don't know if I ever told you how sorry I am. About your parents, I mean. It was so sudden, and then there were so many people about that we never really had a chance to speak …"

"But you were _there_," she interrupted, looking up at him with eyes that were shining with emotion. "You were with me when it happened. And I never even thanked you properly, did I? I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been with me that day, you and Mr Foyle. I'll never forget it. I meant to tell you, to thank you, but when I got back to Hastings you were gone. I couldn't even write to you."

"I'm sorry about that, too. I'd have written if I could, but it was too risky. Being undercover, you see. And even if I'd managed to post a letter you wouldn't have been able to write back. I was using an alias."

"I understand," she replied, seeming to welcome the change of subject. "I was sure it must be like that. Anyway, you're back now. Tell me what you've been doing all this time. Where were you? Can you talk about it?"

As so he began his tale: working as a docker in Liverpool, unloading endless cargo from ships making port while always keeping his eyes peeled for clues to the goods that were vanishing from dockside warehouses with such distressing regularity. Trying to earn the trust of the other men who lodged in dismal boarding houses, sweating out a meagre living on the quays. Sam listened raptly, swivelling her body to face him as he talked. She wanted to know all the details of the case; her questions, he noticed, were as perceptive as any seasoned police officer's - very similar, in fact, to the ones posed by Mr Foyle only two days before.

"Sounds jolly hard," she said eventually. "The cargo-hauling bit, that is. Did your leg bother you?"

"No, not much, once I got used to the work. And as it happens, it was the perfect disguise. A lot of the men had been demobbed from the Forces with injuries - burns, shrapnel, what have you. I wasn't the only amputee. Thanks to the leg nobody suspected for a moment that I might be a detective." He didn't add that working alongside these forgotten men had made him realise how close he had come to joining their ranks permanently after Trondheim. If it hadn't been for Mr Foyle asking him to come back to the police, would he have ended up as another cast-aside labourer, scarred and bitter?

"So it's finished now?" Sam asked, recalling him to the present. "You solved it?"

"Yes. Finally. Toughest case I ever worked on, I think. But I got to the bottom of it. Tricky business, too - turned out the Assistant Chief Constable was taking payoffs to look the other way. He was the harbourmaster's brother-in-law; they were in on it together. No wonder the Liverpool constabulary hadn't been able to crack it."

Her eyes widened. "That sounds rather dangerous."

"Well, let's just say I had to keep my eyes open." He thought it better not to mention his two predecessors on the case, local detectives who had been found out by the racketeers. Both had been viciously beaten and dumped on the quays; one still walked with a limp while the other had lost part of the sight in one eye. "That's why the AC sent me – coming from so far away, I wouldn't be recognised as a police officer. No one from the local force knew who I was, so I was on my own." He drew in a breath and let it out in a sigh. "I'm glad it's over and done with."

Sam looked troubled; after all, she was only too aware of what could happen when an undercover operation went wrong. She had patched up his cuts and bruises on more than one occasion, and no doubt remembered the time he had been shot, though fortunately the bullet had only grazed him. "Will you have to go back?"

"Only to give evidence when it comes to trial," he said reassuringly. "Shouldn't take more than a few days." He broke off, disconcerted by the intensity of her expression. She looked anxious and upset – and, he thought, something more. Did he see a hint of some deeper emotion in her dark eyes, something beyond the easy affection she had always shown him? His mouth went dry. Their gazes locked and held for a long, wordless moment before she looked away, her cheeks flaming scarlet.

His heart had begun to pound in his chest, but before he could react to unexpected _frisson_ Sam had scrambled to her feet. She moved over to the window, turning her back to him and inching the curtain aside to peer out at the empty street. He rose too, feeling awkward and uncertain, unsure how to account for what had just flashed between them. Could it be – was there _any_ chance – that she might have feelings for him as well?

_Get a grip on yourself,_ he chided himself. Needing to take some action, he seized the poker and began to mend the fire, reducing the spent wood to embers with a few skilful blows before setting a fresh log on the grate. _You're imagining things. She doesn't care for you in that way. She's just … upset. It's Christmas, her family is gone and she didn't like hearing about you being in danger. That's all it is. _When he straightened up and dusted off his hands, she had not moved from her place by the window. "Sam?" he said softly. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, still not facing him. "Yes, I'm … I'm fine. Look, it's snowing." She was striving to keep her tone light, but despite her efforts she sounded so forlorn that his heart ached. He felt helpless, too constrained by the strength of his feelings for her to dare to break through the invisible barrier separating came to stand by her, looking out at the fluffy white flakes whirling lightly past on the other side of the glass.

He cast about for something to say, something commonplace and ordinary that might distract her from her dark mood. "They're lighting the churches tonight," he said finally. "Did you hear? At the midnight service. First time in six years they won't be blacked out. Were you thinking of going?"

She stiffened, fingers tightening on the frayed edge of the curtain and he knew at once he'd said the wrong thing. When she replied, her voice was low and husky with suppressed emotion. "I … I haven't been to church since the funeral."

_Ah_, he thought, recognising the significance of this revelation, for he knew that the habit of regular churchgoing had been instilled in her from childhood. He waited patiently for her to continue, silently encouraging her to unburden herself.

"I know … how that must sound. Coming from me, I mean. But I just … _can't._"

"Is that why you came back?"

She nodded, shamefaced. "I just couldn't face it. Christmas in a vicarage … do you know what that's like? The hymns. The advent candles. The bells. Decorating the church. And of course you're expected to attend every service ... everything just like home, but _not_ home …" Her voice was tremulous, but she was fighting to maintain control. Her gaze was fixed on the darkness outside, as though she feared seeing his disapproval. "You must think I'm a dreadful coward."

"Of course not," he reassured her, his voice deep and tender. "I understand. Was your uncle disappointed when you told him you weren't staying?"

She looked abashed. "I … didn't," she admitted, still not looking at him. "I just left a note on the sideboard. I couldn't sleep all last night, so I finally got up at half-past five and slipped out before it got light and walked to the station."

He found this picture so heart-wrenching that the last of his resolve melted away. "Oh, Sam," he said, putting a gentle arm round her shoulders and giving a comforting squeeze. Her eyes were brimming with tears but she blinked them back fiercely and went on, her words tumbling out in a rush.

"It was beastly of me, but … it's Sunday, you see, and the idea of going to church … I just couldn't. I … oh, how can I explain it?"

He understood only too well, having struggled with his own spiritual crisis a few years before. "You think I don't know what it's like to feel angry with God?" he asked quietly.

She raised her eyes to his face then, catching her breath in surprise. "Angry with … yes, that's it. Exactly. How did you know? I know it's wrong, but I can't _help_ it. My parents were good people, Milner, truly good! They spent their whole lives helping others, serving the Church. Serving _God_. They didn't deserve to die that way!"

The tears she had been suppressing so fiercely finally began to spill over, trickling down her cheeks. He tightened his arm round her and guided her to the sofa, drawing her down next to him and letting her vent her pent-up anguish in the safety of his arms.

He held her close, one hand gently caressing her back, keening soft indistinct murmurs into the sweet-smelling copper hair. These were not the quick, hot, bewildered tears she had wept on that terrible day in September; these were long, slow tears of grief torn from somewhere deep in her soul. Sensing how desperately she needed this release he let her cry as long as she wanted, her face hidden against his shoulder, her arms around him, clutching the back of his waistcoat.

Much as he hated to see her so upset, a selfish part of him was exulting in her breakdown. This, _this_ was what he had wanted: to hold her and comfort her; to feel that, even for a brief time, he had some claim to a special role in her life. She felt indescribably precious in his arms. His spirit sang with the stinging joy of being needed.

After a long while her sobs lessened and he felt the tension in her body begin to ease. Still he did not move or speak, not wishing this treasured intimacy to end any sooner than it had to. Nor did Sam make any attempt to break away from their embrace; she had gone limp, spent by the force of her weeping. Eventually her breathing slowed, her head drooped more heavily against his chest and he realised with wonder that she had fallen asleep.


	10. Chapter 10: Finding Each Other

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'

Paul sat very still on the sofa, a bit stunned but immensely gratified by the unexpected turn of events. How far removed from the solitary Christmas Eve he had anticipated! He had forgotten how fulfilling simple physical closeness could be, rendered all the sweeter for being so utterly unforeseen. He let himself sink deep into the pleasure of holding the girl he loved while she slept peacefully in his arms.

There was no light in the room save that cast by the dancing flames from the fire, no sound except the occasional pop and crackle of burning wood and Sam's slow, steady breathing. When he was quite sure she was deeply asleep he shifted slightly on the faded cushions, settling himself more comfortably and pulling her closer against him. Her cheek rested against his chest, pressing against his waistcoat just above his heart. He couldn't resist the temptation to brush a feather-light kiss on her hair, his fingers caressing the tousled red-gold curls, marvelling at their softness. She slumbered on undisturbed, one arm flung limply about his waist.

It couldn't last, this idyllic interlude; he knew that very well. Much as he would love to hold her all night, she was bound to wake up eventually. And he knew what would happen then: she would draw away, flustered, and apologise for her lack of propriety, perhaps making some self-deprecating remark or joke. The precious closeness would end, never to be repeated. The most he could do was cherish this time, however brief it might be. Each passing minute felt like another drop filling his deep well of loneliness, healing the scars left by Jane's rejection, making him whole again.

* * *

He never knew, later, how long she slept. An hour? Two? He himself had finally drifted into a blissful sort of daze when the log on the fire eventually burned through and broke in two, falling into the grate in a noisy shower of sparks. He felt her start in his arms; then, with a murmur, she stirred, stretching her body and rubbing her face against his chest, rather like a cat. _This is it_, he thought regretfully as she slowly raised her head to look into his face. _All over._

For several seconds she blinked up at him, disoriented, as though not quite sure where she was. Her hair was tousled and the pattern of his cable-knit waistcoat was imprinted upon her flushed cheek. Then, as she got her bearings, her lips curved in a sweet, pure smile, as if she could imagine no better place to wake up than in his arms. He felt his chest tighten as everything he felt for her welled up anew, demanding acknowledgement. Her face was temptingly close; it would be so very, very easy to kiss her …

After a long, wordless moment her smile faded, her expression modulating into the same ardent intensity he'd glimpsed so briefly earlier in the evening. He had always been able to read her face easily so it would have been impossible now for him to mistake the adoration, the raw longing in her eyes. His heart began to pound almost painfully beneath his ribs. He couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't even breathe.

Once again, as it had on that warm August night, instinct took over from his benumbed mind. His hand came up to brush a stray curl back from her face, then caressed her cheek, cupping it tenderly in his work-roughened palm and revelling in the satiny texture. Sam's eyes fluttered closed under his touch with a tiny whimper, her body arching closer; he could feel his remaining resolve crumbling like a sand-castle battered by the incoming tide. He knew, as his lips found hers, that it was impossible for him to hide his true feelings any longer.

Their first kisses all those months ago had been gentle, tentative, an almost hesitant exploration of unknown territory. This time was different. Her lips were sweeter than he remembered, her response surer, more passionate. Her hand slipped behind his neck to pull his mouth down harder on hers, her touch sending exquisite shivers rippling down his spine. All his pent-up longing spilled out like an uncorked bottle of champagne, his lips and hands expressing everything he had been unable to put into words.

Breaking their kiss, he moved to her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead, before returning again to her beckoning mouth. Burying a hand in her hair, he cradled her head with his long fingers and abandoned himself to the sensation of her lips moving under his, to the soft sounds of pleasure that escaped her.

If he'd had his way he would never have stopped kissing her, but the need for air eventually forced them apart. He rested his forehead against hers as he fought for breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. "Oh, _God_, Sam," he gasped, unable to prevent his voice from shaking a little. "I tried _so _hard not to do that …"

He felt her stiffen in his arms. "But … why?" she breathed, sounding bewildered.

He was nonplussed. Surely she must understand the impossibility of their situation, mustn't she? "_You_ know. This isn't … right."

He couldn't see her face so he had no inkling of the confusion and turmoil incited by his words. He didn't know she was remembering his behaviour that night in Priory Lane, all those months ago. He had immediately apologised, as though he regretted the impulse. Now he had done it again – kissed her like no man had ever done, making her feel things she'd never felt before, leaving her dizzy and defenceless and shaken to her to her very core – only to turn round and dismiss her with the excuse that it "wasn't _right_".

A long-ago echo reverberated inside her head. How could she ever forget Andrew's crushing words? _Sometimes I don't even care if I ever see you again … it's as if you don't exist for me, as if we never met_. And though it hadn't happened immediately, in the end he had rejected her, thrown her over for another girl. And now, was it happening again? Was Paul trying to tell her that he could never love her because his heart belonged to someone else?

But who? Was it Edith, that nurse he'd stepped out with for a time? Somehow she doubted it. After all, that relationship had been over for well over a year now, hadn't it? He had never spoken much about the matter, but she had gleaned enough to conclude that he had not been deeply involved with Edith Ashford; that indeed he, not she, had been the one to end things between them. No, as far as she knew Paul had only ever loved one woman: his wife.

_Jane,_ she thought, her heart sinking still further. _It always comes back to Jane, doesn't it? _ The wretched woman had humiliated him, rejected him and deserted him, but perhaps all that hadn't been enough to make him stop loving her. After all, Paul was a deeply loyal and constant man; it was one of the things Sam admired most about him. So why should she assume that his attachment to his wife was a thing of the past, despite her faithlessness, despite the fact that she was two years dead?

All these thoughts flashed through her mind in a few moments. Her stomach twisted. She wanted to weep, to beat at his chest with her fists and scream with hurt and rage, but her pride fought fiercely for control. "Is it … Jane?" she managed at last, her voice husky with suppressed emotion.

The question took him by surprise._ Leave it to Sam to strike the nail on the head,_ he thought ruefully. She was right, of course. In the end, it _did _all come down to Jane, didn't it? If he'd never been married to her, separated from her, nearly divorced from her, the obstacles to a future with Sam would have been greatly reduced. He sighed. "I suppose you could put it that way."

Her shoulders went still more rigid and she drew back, pulling away from his embrace. Her head bowed so her hair fell forward, obscuring her face. "I see," she said tightly.

"Oh, Sam," he said helplessly, feeling her withdrawal as acutely as a stab wound. "I'm sorry. I can't change the past. Believe me, I would if I could."

"No, no. If that's how it is … if you … still have feelings for her, then … well, there's nothing more to be said, is there?" She was struggling to keep her voice steady, not wanting him to know how much his rejection hurt her. Why, _why_ had she assumed that his advances meant anything more than an expression of his loneliness?

Paul blinked, startled, as the meaning of her words sunk in. "What? Have _feelings_ for … Sam, no!" He took hold of her arms and gave a gentle shake for emphasis. "Listen to me. That's not it at all. Any feelings I had for Jane died years ago. I thought you knew that."

She raised her chin to look at him then, looking both confused and upset, the dark eyes shining with unshed tears. "But …"

"Sam." His voice was low but very firm. "You must understand. I'm not quite sure when it happened, but somewhere along the line I fell in love with you."

There was no mistaking the shock on her face. "You … you _did_?"

He nodded silently, never taking his eyes off hers, his heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his chest. Come what may, he had spoken the words at last.

"But … if that's how you feel, then why … why can't we …"

"Sam, you _know_ your father wouldn't have approved."

"Why on earth not?"

"Because of … my past. Jane."

"But she left you!"

"Still. I was married before. Separated. Next door to divorced. Hardly what your father would have wanted for you."

"But you never were divorced, were you?"

"No. She died before I had a chance to file. But I _would_ have, you know. I just wanted to be free of her. I know how your father would have felt about that. So how can I ask you to be with me?"

She was quiet for a moment, considering his words. "I don't know exactly what Dad would have said, to be honest. He didn't approve of divorce, of course, but he also didn't believe in punishing the innocent party. He believed that was unChristian. Dad had his own ideas about morality, you know; he didn't just follow the teachings of the Church."

"I know. That's the problem, don't you see? He was so highly principled - "

"Yes, he was. He had his own code. Take his being a teetotaller, for instance – that was his own conviction, nothing to do with the Church. He was always like that. If a parishioner came to him with a moral or spiritual dilemma, he didn't just give a pat answer. He would think and pray until he felt he'd got to the heart of it." Milner nodded; this sounded very much like the Iain Stewart he had known. "As far as your marriage goes, in the eyes of the Church you're a widower, pure and simple, no matter what happened between you. And as for Dad's own scruples – well, I know it would have meant a lot to him that you weren't the one to break your marriage vows. It might have taken him a bit of time to get used to the idea of – of _us_, but I'm pretty sure he would have accepted it in the end."

A flicker of hope began to glimmer within him like a candle flame in the blackout. "You really think so?"

She nodded. "Absolutely. He always said that a forgiving God grants people a second chance, especially when they're trying to do right. And he liked you, you know. Very much. He always said you were a fine young man."

He reached out to take both her hands in his. "Oh, Sam. You have no idea how much I want to believe that."

"Well, it's true. But mind, even if I'm wrong about Dad, I wouldn't have let that stop me."

The tiny flame of hope seemed to glow more brightly as her words sank in. "Does that mean that you … that you would want … ?"

"Of course," she replied simply. Her face was flushed but her eyes were locked on his grey ones earnestly. "What you said about – about _falling in love_ – well, it's the same for me. I didn't realise how much until I came back to Hastings after the funeral. All the time I was away I couldn't stop thinking about you. You were the only person I wanted to see. But then you were gone for so long. I _had_ thought you might feel the same, but when I never heard from you I wasn't sure what to think … in the end I convinced myself that you didn't care."

"Oh, _Sam_ – " he began, but she squeezed his hands to silence him. Her words spilled out in a rush, as though she were intent on confessing everything now that she had begun.

"No, please let me finish. If there's one thing I've learnt these past few months it's that life is too short to let a chance like this slip by. For heaven's sake, we could be _dead_ tomorrow! One of those frightful V2s could fall on this house and blow us to bits in an instant. As we're both free and we love each other, why shouldn't we grab the chance of a bit of happiness while we can?"

He felt his reservations begin to fade. In the face of such logic, the misgivings that had so troubled him suddenly seemed irrelevant. She was right, of course. The war had cost them both so much – he, his leg and his wife; she, her parents and her home. Why should they deny themselves the opportunity to build a new life together if it was what they both wanted? A throb ofjoy pulsed from his centre down to his fingers and toes, but before he would allow himself to succumb to it, his cautious nature asserted itself. "Is this really what you want, Sam?"

Her face lit up with the quicksilver smile he so loved. "Of course."

"I'm just an ordinary policeman, you know. I'll never be able to give you a life of luxury."

"So? I've never cared about that sort of thing. Anyway, I've always liked policemen."

"And …" he hesitated to bring up this most painful topic, but he knew it had to be said; she deserved to know the worst before committing herself. "… there's my leg. It's not a pretty sight. There's scarring everywhere. It's faded now, but it will always be there. And without this bit of aluminium, I'm helpless. A cripple."

The smile vanished, her mouth falling open with shock. "For God's sake, Paul, do you think I care about your _leg_? What do you take me for?" It was the first time she'd ever called him by his Christian name; just hearing her utter that single syllable made his heart turn over. Her hand dropped to his left knee, caressing it with a tenderness that moved him unbearably. He could never forget how Jane had avoided even looking at his amputated stump, never mind touching. "All this means to me is that you're _brave_. You lost your leg fighting for your country - I'm proud of you! And don't _ever_ let me hear you call yourself a cripple again. You're the furthest thing from a cripple I can imagine. I love you, Paul. _All_ of you, just as you are."

The raw sincerity in her eyes was enough to assuage his lingering doubts. "Oh, Sam," he muttered thickly, folding her in his arms. "Are you sure?"

"Very sure …" she whispered before his lips closed on hers.


	11. Chapter 11: Christmas Miracle

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_Christmas Day 1944, the small hours of the morning_

It took a long time for sleep to claim Paul that night. Arms folded behind his head on the comfortable old sofa, he gazed up at the firelight flickering faintly on the sitting-room ceiling and let his mind drift back, reliving every precious moment of this magical Christmas Eve.

Wrapped up in each other as they were, it had taken quite a long time before he and Sam had noticed that the hour was well past dinnertime. Simple tasks like putting the meat pie in the oven and laying the table had never been so pleasant as now. After their meal they had settled on the sofa again with her head nestled against his shoulder, sometimes kissing, sometimes talking, but mostly just savouring the exquisite bliss of being together. It wasn't until midnight, when they heard the bells ringing in Christmas across Hastings, that Sam reluctantly detached herself from his arms with a lingering kiss and took herself off to the bedroom.

The thought of Sam in his bed, however, was not conducive to a restful night for Paul. Was she asleep, he wondered, or was she laying awake thinking about him, as he was about her? He was unable to prevent himself from picturing how she must look, her body soft and yielding in slumber, the glorious copper hair spilling free across the white pillow. How would she react if he were to slip into the bedroom and join her in his bed? Would she be shocked, perhaps offended at his boldness, or might she lift the covers and welcome him? He imagined her gasping with pleasure as he moulded his body to hers, running his hands up under her nightdress to explore all the hidden places he longed to touch.

_No_, he checked himself firmly, trying to control his body's reaction to the erotic direction his thoughts had taken. _None of that_. Given Sam's passionate response to him this evening she might very well be a willing party to seduction, but in his heart he was convinced that to make love to her tonight would be a mistake. Despite her current spiritual disillusionment, Sam was a vicar's daughter to her very core. Her values were ineradicably those with which she had been brought up. Sleep with him out of wedlock and on some level she was bound to feel it a sin. He would not risk damaging their relationship with guilt over a premature consummation, no matter how great the temptation in the small hours.

It was this conviction that had driven Paul to maintain such rigid control over his desires this evening. To have won her love was extraordinary enough; he must not expect her to immediately surrender her body as well. As nearly as possible, he was determined to conduct his courtship of Sam in a manner that her father would have approved. Meeting Reverend Stewart's expectations would not only show respect for the vicar's moral code, but would also prove Milner worthy of his daughter's hand, if only to himself. If all went well he would enjoy the ultimate physical expression of their love soon enough, once he had made her his wife.

His wife. Sam, his _wife_. The thought made him smile to himself in the velvety darkness. How long had he despaired of claiming her as his own, and yet how readily had she welcomed the idea! Although, come to think of it, neither of them had actually mentioned marriage. They had only spoken vaguely of "being together". But somehow this seemed enough for now. A cautious man by nature, Paul hadn't wanted to overwhelm her by taking things too quickly, but he felt confident that the details of their future would fall into place now that they had taken the first steps.

It was queer, he thought, how life worked out. All those years they'd worked side-by-side, first as colleagues, then as friends, finally as something approaching brother and sister, with scarcely a hint of a deeper attraction between them. Why had he been oblivious for so long to the treasure right under his nose, to the one woman whose sweet smile and vibrant personality never failed to lift his spirits?

His promotion to inspector had been the catalyst for change between them, starting with that fateful celebration dinner at _Les Bijoux_. How ironic that this selfsame promotion had also taken him away from her for so long, delaying the moment when they could complete the transition from friends to lovers. And how incredible that after months of separation that they should find each other tonight, Christmas Eve, coming together so naturally, so easily, as though it had been preordained?

_It's a miracle_, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. _A ruddy Christmas miracle._

* * *

When she awoke next morning Sam lay still for a long moment trying to remember where she was, squinting round at the unfamiliar contours of the dimly lit room. This wasn't her boarding house, nor the guest room in Uncle Aubrey's drafty vicarage ... all at once the memory swept over her and she felt her cheeks flame. _Paul_. She was in _his_ flat, in _his_ bed. Rolling over, she buried her face in the pillow and drew in a deep breath, savouring the blend of Imperial Leather soap, Royal Yacht hair lotion and his own musky, indefinable male essence. The smell sent a tingle of excitement radiating through her body, but at the same time she was filled with the comforting sensation of coming home. After the destruction of Lyminster's vicarage she had doubted that she would ever feel as though she truly belonged anywhere ever again, but here in this simple flat above the food shop, with this man, she knew she'd found the shelter she had been seeking.

Suddenly feeling more energised than she had in months, Sam tossed back the covers and began to dress. She was so eager to see Paul that she spent little time fussing over her appearance, contenting herself with pinning back her wayward curls with combs and whisking a dusting of powder over her freckles. Before she turned away from the glass she cast a final appraising glance over her reflection. The slim green knit dress, her mother's special Christmas frock, flattered her figure and her colouring, but it was the sparkle in her eyes that transformed her rather ordinary prettiness into something more this morning. Satisfied with what she saw, she moved toward the door.

She found Paul in the little kitchen, standing next to the sink sipping a mug of tea. At the sight of her his face lit up with unrestrained delight. He set down his cup and reached out to her, grasping both her hands in his and drawing her close. He kissed her, first on the mouth, then the forehead, then on the lips again, lingering this time, as though savouring them, savouring _her_. "Good morning," he murmured, and her insides fluttered at the emotion resonating in his deep voice.

"Good morning," she replied softly. "Happy Christmas."

* * *

_Monday 25 December 1944, half-past ten in the evening_

" 'Happy Christmas' ." Hours later, Paul reflected on those words as he and Sam walked home through the dark streets of Hastings. The usual Yuletide greeting, so commonplace as to be nearly devoid of meaning, had magically been proved true for him today. It had indeed been a happy day, unquestionably the most joyful Christmas he could remember.

The couple had spent the day with his sister and her children at her little cottage near St. Leonards. Sam had been reluctant to accompany him at first, not wishing to impose upon the family celebration, but he had insisted. "Of _course_ you must come. I've already rung Penny to ask and she's insisting that I bring you along. She wants to meet you," he'd told her. "Besides, where will you go?" In the end she hadn't taken too much persuading, as the alternative was to pass Christmas Day alone in her boarding house.

Arriving at Penny's house in the late morning, they had been greeted at the door by a small figure barrelling like a cannonball into Paul's midsection. _"Unkapoll!"_ shrieked his three-year-old nephew, thoroughly overexcited by the arrival of his favourite playmate and blithely ignoring his mother's attempts to calm him. Any awkwardness over introducing Penny to Sam was quickly dispelled by Jack's exuberant greeting. Paul had not experienced Christmas through a child's eyes since his own boyhood and he found the young lad's wonder and delight infectious.

All the deprivations wrought upon the festivities by the war seemed of little consequence on this, the sixth Christmas since hostilities began. Somehow it didn't matter that there were no crackers to pull, that gifts were few and relentlessly practical or that rationing made for a scanty meal - no turkey, but Penny had managed a joint, a mince pie and a delicious plum pudding. It was the first Christmas Paul had spent with loved ones since before the war and having Sam by his side made it perfect. He kept a close eye on her, knowing that this day could not be easy for her, but she seemed to be bearing up well. She had brought along a bottle of her uncle's home-made wine – blackberry this year, and surprisingly good – so they drank a toast to the last Christmas of the war and to the safe return of Penny's husband Richard, currently somewhere in northern France.

After dinner Paul bundled Jack out-of-doors for a vigorous and much-needed romp. The previous night's snowfall hadn't been heavy enough for a snowman, but they managed a vigorous snowball fight in the back garden, punctuated with a great deal of wrestling and boyish giggles. When at last he carried the sodden and exhausted child back into the house it was to find that Penny had nodded off by the sitting-room fire while Sam rocked Molly, Jack's baby sister. He stood watching her for a long moment, his heart swelling. Seeing her cradling the infant so tenderly suggested such glorious possibilities that he was almost afraid to contemplate them.

It was late before he and Sam finally departed, covering the two miles on foot since no buses ran on Christmas Day. There were no streetlights, but their way was made easier by the fact that the blackout had recently given way to the "dim-out", a relaxing of regulations which permitted small amounts of light to penetrate from curtained windows so that faint rectangles illuminated the night. They hurried along side-by-side, saying little, their breath freezing in clouds in the cold. Paul was racked with indecision. Propriety, he knew, dictated that he should escort Sam to her boarding house, see her safely inside and bid her goodnight. It really wouldn't do for any of his neighbours to notice that he'd brought a young lady home with him, especially for the second night in a row. On the other hand he was naturally loath to part from her, not least because he still hadn't found the right moment to pose the all-important question he wished to ask. If she came home with him, surely he would be able to find the words which had thus far eluded him.

He was still wrestling with himself when they started across a small slice of park behind the Town Hall. The moon drifted out from behind a cloud, casting a silvery glow all round them, and he was suddenly reminded forcefully of their walk home from _Les Bijoux_ on that warm August night all those months ago. How badly he'd wanted to kiss her, to touch her; how he'd struggled to control his attraction to her until at last he'd thrown caution to the winds. How _right_ it had felt …

The memory stirred his resolve. What was he waiting for? He came to a halt in the middle of the snowy square, turning Sam to face him and slipping his arms round her waist. She lifted her face for his kiss but he held back, gazing lovingly down at her for a long moment, drinking her in with his eyes. When at last he spoke, he uttered only three words. "Marry me, Sam?"

The smile that spread across her face told him that this Christmas had one more miracle in store for him. "Oh, _Paul_," she whispered. "Yes. Of course. _Yes_ …"

He kissed her then, a kiss so sweet and full of promise that any thoughts of delivering her to her digs faded quietly into oblivion. When at last they broke apart he began to walk again, one arm clasped firmly round Sam's waist. "It's cold out here," he told her quietly. "Let's go home."


	12. Chapter 12: Love and Desire

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_Christmas Day 1944, very late in the evening_

Paul knelt before the hearth, trying to steady the staccato pounding in his chest. Sam had disappeared into the bedroom to "freshen up" after their long walk while he kindled a fire to warm the chilly room. He was glad she couldn't see how his hands fumbled with the matches before he succeeded in lighting the twist of newspaper in the grate.

By the time she emerged from the bedroom he had set the fire-screen in place and was sitting on the floor before the flickering flames, much as she had done the evening before. There were no other lights in the room, and the young woman moved so quietly that he did not hear her approach over the crackle of wood. The first he knew was the gentle touch of her hands on his shoulders as she knelt behind him; then he felt the warmth of her lips as she pressed slow, sensual kisses against the back of his neck. The arousal that engulfed him was instantaneous. Jane had never, _ever_ initiated a physical encounter with him, so Sam's simple gesture literally took his breath away. Hearing his sharp exhalation, she chuckled softly; her warm breath on his skin made him shudder with pleasure.

He snaked a long arm behind him, pulling her round him so swiftly that she lost her balance and tumbled backward into his arms. Her startled squeal died in her throat when she saw the raw intensity in his eyes; her breath caught in turn as the current of sexual tension between them sent tingles radiating from her insides clear out to her fingers and toes. She reached up to brush a forefinger into the cleft in his chin before he dipped his head and found her mouth. Coherent thought slipped away in a tide of sensation, lips and hands and bodies expressing the deepest feelings of their hearts.

A quarter of an hour later they were stretched full length on the carpet and Paul's noble intentions of the previous night were being tested to the limit. He was dizzy with desire; she was so willing, so responsive that every moment made the thought of stopping more impossible. The supple body arching eagerly against his, sweet curves welcoming his touch; the caress of her lips on his earlobe, his throat, his collarbone, igniting his skin with fiery pleasure wherever they touched; the soft swell of her breast under his hand; the rising whimpers and moans that he stopped with his kisses … it was almost more than he could endure. He knew instinctively that he ought to proceed slowly because such intimacies were probably new to Sam, but the trust in her eyes, the open ardour of her response, urged him on. How easy it would be, instead of fumbling awkwardly under her jumper, to do as he really longed to and undress her, to fling his own garments aside along with his restraint and feel her naked skin against his, to take her right here on the worn hearthrug while the fire bathed their bodies in flickering amber light! After all, he told his niggling conscience, she had agreed to marry him, hadn't she? Would it _really_ be so wrong to anticipate the wedding ceremony?

In the end his passion was thwarted, ironically, by their lack of control. Somehow he found himself easing on top of her, both still fully clothed, her legs parting to embrace him. He was unable to resist the urge to thrust against her and groaned deep in his throat when her hips pressed back, instinctively following his rhythm. Before he knew what was happening she was gasping and shuddering beneath him, her hands fluttering wildly up and down his back, and he knew he was teetering on the brink. Then her body stiffened, arching up against him, her hoarse gasp trailing off in a cry of astonished pleasure. Her hands slipped down to clutch his backside as though trying to pull him inside her. It was too much for him; his own climax rushed over him, wave after wave of indescribable ecstasy convulsing his body until at last he sagged, spent, his face buried in the tumbled mass of bright copper hair.

After a long moment he collected himself enough to raise his head and scan her face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He hadn't meant things to go so far; somewhere beneath the exquisite glow of pleasure suffusing him was the niggling worry that he might have shocked or overwhelmed her. "Sam? Are you … all right?" he managed when he could speak.

To his relief, her expression was radiant, if a bit stunned. "Yes, of course. I'm - I'm … _marvellous," _she gasped, sounding as breathless as he. "I've never … I mean, I didn't know - I've never felt _anything_ like that - " Her cheeks were the rosy hue of a sunset sky, but her eyes were glowing up at him with undisguised love. "I don't see _how_ the rest could be any more wonderful than that - " she broke off abruptly, abashed, her blush deepening.

A smile spread across his face at this delightfully unladylike admission. God, how he adored her! Her incongruous blend of outspokenness and innocence captivated him in a way that no other woman ever had. He knew a surge of pure joy, fierce and primitive, coupled with a hint of masculine pride that he had been the first to give her such pleasure. At the same time, he felt a thrill of anticipation at the promise implied by her charmingly indiscreet remark. To make love to her properly, completely, without the barriers of clothing or moral inhibitions ... to gently, patiently teach her about "the rest", introducing her to the pleasures a man and a woman can give each other … "Oh, _Sam_," he groaned thickly, tightening his arms round her and hiding his face again in the burnished russet curls, "let's get married _soon, _please!"

* * *

Sam never did go to bed that night.

Even after the hands of the clock moved past midnight, they lingered together near the warmth of the fire. Their natural reluctance to be separated was intensified by the knowledge that their private idyll would have to come to an end on the morrow. With Christmas over, normal life would resume. It wouldn't do for the Frasiers to discover a young lady in residence above-stairs with their unmarried tenant, and Paul would take no chances with the reputation of his wife-to-be. As the hour grew later he briefly considered suggesting that they share his bed, but concluded that this would exceed his self-imposed bounds of propriety. Besides, he didn't entirely trust himself to resist temptation. In the end they fell asleep together on the sofa under the old tartan blanket, her head nestled comfortably on his shoulder.

As he listened drowsily to the steady rhythm of her breathing Paul reflected that he was glad that the physical side of things hadn't got too far out of hand. Not only did he want to save Sam's virginity until their wedding night, he had to admit to himself that he wasn't yet ready for her to see the damage that German shell had wreaked upon his body. He knew he was oversensitive about his amputation, but Jane's revulsion had wounded him more deeply than he cared to admit. Better to wait to expose his scars, he thought, to give himself time to brace himself for her reaction. In the meantime they could take things slowly, enjoying the sort of lesser intimacies that they had explored tonight but delaying consummation until marriage. Feeling deeply contented and at peace, Paul brushed a feather-light kiss on the top of her head and let sleep claim him at last.


	13. Chapter 13: Making Plans

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_Tuesday 26 December 1944_

Paul and Sam were up very early next morning. They slipped down the back stairs to the alley behind the shop just as the sky was growing light. The shop would do no trade on Boxing Day, but he knew there was a good chance the Frasiers might stop by to check on their business and he wanted Sam well out of the way first. They parted with a lingering kiss – Paul to embark on the short walk to the station, Sam to make the longer journey to her digs on Priory Lane. DCS Foyle, who hadn't had a day off in months, had been persuaded by his newly returned inspector to take Boxing Day as a well-earned holiday. And as everyone believed Sam to be in Hampshire with her uncle, she wasn't expected at work that day either.

They had agreed over a hasty breakfast not to make their engagement public just yet. Sam's recent bereavement was reason enough for discretion, but a deeper one was that neither felt quite ready to disclose the momentous news. Both wanted to hold it close for a few days at least, savouring the exquisite secret between them, and then to share it first with the most important people in their lives. For Paul, that meant Penny; for Sam, her trio of stalwart friends at her digs. But when the time was right, they had agreed, the very first person with whom they would share their news would be Christopher Foyle.

* * *

The lovers met for dinner that evening at a quiet restaurant near Priory Lane. The meal was the usual indifferent wartime fare but for once even Sam paid little attention to what was on her plate, so wrapped up were they in each other. When he walked her home she had little trouble persuading him to come in. Mrs Cox was still away but two of her flatmates had returned that evening, providing a semblance of chaperonage. Fortunately, Fiona and Lesley wanted an early night so the young couple were left to their own devices in the sitting room.

Settling himself comfortably on Mrs Cox's faded cretonne settee, Paul caught a whiff of her perfume, the same delicate floral scent she'd been wearing that night at _Les Bijoux_. His stomach did an exquisitely slow somersault, remembering how it had felt to take her in his arms for the first time. He reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. "So I've been thinking," he said quietly. "Perhaps we should go see Mr Eaton tomorrow."

"Mr Eaton?"

"Rector of St. Bartholomew's. In Chandler Street. Unless you'd prefer your parish?"

If he'd expected her to smile at this, he was disappointed. She looked away, not meeting his eyes. "I … don't know," she finally answered after a long moment, her voice husky. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."

He felt a chill of apprehension. "Sam?" he managed, though his mouth had gone dry. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"Oh, no!" she replied, looking up and meeting his eyes with such a heartfelt denial that his fears were eased. "No, of course not!"

"Then what …"

"It's just … the _wedding_," she explained, the familiar sorrow clouding her dark eyes. "I was thinking - registry office, maybe. The thing is, I'm not sure if I can face a church wedding."

"I see." He could guess what she was feeling but, knowing her as well as he did, knew that it was important to let her to unburden herself. "Too painful?"

She nodded. "Mother loved weddings, you see," she explained, a hint of a quaver in her voice. "She helped organise most of the weddings in Lyminster -– choosing the hymns, arranging the flowers, making sure things went smoothly on the day. The whole village knew they could count on her to make everything perfect. She even used to help make the brides' dresses sometimes, before her hands got too bad.

"When I was growing up she and I always talked about what my wedding would be like. We had everything planned. It would be at St. Stephen's, of course. I'd wear my grandmother's wedding gown - ivory satin with old lace, really gorgeous. My bridesmaids would be in blue. It would be in the spring, and I'd carry flowers from our own garden, daffodils and irises. Uncle Aubrey would officiate so my father could give me away, but Dad would perform the blessing. But _now_ …" she gestured vaguely, "gone, all of it. Mother and Dad, our house. Even the garden's ruined."

"And your grandmother's wedding dress?"

She shook her head. "In the wardrobe in my parents' bedroom. The one that - " she trailed off, but he knew the rest: the wardrobe that had fallen on her mother when the bomb hit, crushing her. He cringed inwardly.

Paul released her hand so he could put his arm around her. "It's all right," he murmured, his voice low and tender. "We don't have to be married in church if you don't want to. I just don't want you to look back later and have regrets." Would a vicar's daughter, he wondered, feel properly married without a religious blessing?

He felt her shrug, remembering what she'd confided to him on Christmas Eve about avoiding church since her parents' deaths. "I understand how you feel, Sam," he told her. "About ... church. God. All of it. I went through much the same thing myself awhile back, you know."

"Did you? After Norway?"

"Well, that was part of it, of course. But it was after Jane left that I really hit bottom. I didn't set foot in a church for over a year."

"You didn't?" She sounded genuinely surprised, but then, he had never discussed his spiritual struggles with her before. "But you went back eventually?"

"Yes."

"What changed your mind?"

"Actually, Sam, it was your father."

She lifted her head from his shoulder to study his face. "_Dad?_ But when? How?"

"Do you remember that time we stopped the night in Lyminster, on the way home from Dartmoor?" She nodded. "Well, in the morning I went for a walk with your father and I would up telling him about everything – my leg, Jane leaving me. I was very bitter and angry, not only with her but with God. How could He do this to me?"

She was watching him in fascination. "And what did he say?"

"Something I'd never heard a vicar say before, that he didn't know why God let things like that happen. For some reason that really affected me, hearing a priest say he didn't understand God any more than I did. It was so different to the line the chaplain in hospital took – 'accept God's will, it's all part of His great plan for you.' I don't know exactly why that should have made such a difference, but it did."

"Dad said that? Really?" He nodded, and saw her brow crease in an expression caught somewhere between scepticism and incredulity. "So you … you started going to church again?"

"Well, that was a Sunday, you remember. Your whole family was going. It would have been rude to beg off. And once I got there, I realised that the anger I'd been carrying round inside me for so long was gone."

"And Dad … he had no idea?"

"None."

She smiled wistfully. "He'd have been ever so pleased." She sat in silence for a moment, digesting his words. "So I suppose you'd like a church wedding then?"

"Well, yes … but only if you're comfortable with the idea." He raised her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across the knuckles. "This is _our_ day, Sam. Our wedding. We don't have to do anything we don't want to do. I know it can't be the way you've always planned, but we can make it special. Take a bit of time and think about it, all right? There's no rush."

Sam reached up to pull him into a grateful hug. "Oh, Paul. You _are_ a brick. You wonderful, _wonderful _man …" The hug quickly segued into a kiss, and there was no more conversation between them for some time.

It was, Paul reflected contentedly as he walked home an hour later through the December cold, quite a lovely way to end the evening …


	14. Chapter 14: Man and Wife

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_Thursday 11 January 1945_

DCS Foyle was finishing a late lunch at the Crown and Anchor in Winchelsea, accompanied by his driver and his onetime sergeant. Now that Milner had been promoted to inspector he did not assist Foyle on cases, so outings as a trio were no longer routine. Today, however, they had joined forces on a visit to Rye to compare notes with their chief inspector over a rash of robberies that had cropped up across Sussex and Kent, stopping for a meal on the return journey.

An icy wind was ripping across the South Coast, so Foyle was happy enough to linger over lunch with his two companions, seated near the welcome heat of a coal stove near their table. It was, he thought, quite like old times. He was pleased to have Milner back in Hastings, his undercover operation successfully concluded, and was even happier that Sam had returned from her holiday visit to Hampshire in considerably brighter spirits. Obviously getting past the hurdle of the first Christmas without her parents had done her a world of good.

_Got something of her old sparkle back, especially today_, he thought, watching as she and Milner smiled at each other. The two, tucked side-by-side in the booth opposite him, had clearly fallen back into their comfortable companionship after the long separation. _Good to see._

He took a last swallow of cider and set his glass on the table. "Best be getting back, I suppose," he said a little reluctantly, reaching for his hat. Across the table, Milner and Sam exchanged glances. Before he could consider the significance of this, Milner spoke.

"Actually, sir, there was something we wanted to tell you."

"Oh, yes?" Foyle set his hat back down and looked questioningly at the pair as Milner brought his right hand up to rest on the table. Several facts struck him simultaneously: first, that Milner had said _we, _not_ I_; second, that he was holding Sam's hand; and third, that on her third finger was an unfamiliar glint of silver.

Christopher Foyle could count on one hand the number of times he'd been rendered speechless in recent years. His keen intuition, his eye for detail and his vast experience of life made him a difficult man to surprise. But this revelation, confirmed by Milner's simple "We're getting married", left him, in the pithy expression of an old Geordie mate from his Army days, _gobsmacked_.

He looked from the ring – a rich blue topaz set in delicate silver filigree, perfect for Sam – to Sam's blushing, happy face, to Milner's proud smile. "Uuuhhh," he managed, "Ummm … rrrrright. Well, that's …" Then a smile spread across his face, an unrestrained, very un-Foyle-like smile the likes of which Sam and Milner had rarely seen him wear. A moment later he was on his feet, reaching across the table to shake Milner's hand. "Marvellous. Congratulations. Well done, both of you."

Later – after he'd kissed Sam on the cheek, after he'd admired the ring, after he'd gone up to the bar for a celebratory round to toast the couple – he began to wonder about the details. _How long has this been going on? They didn't even see each other all autumn; he was in Liverpool. So when did all this happen? And how did I miss it, right under my nose? _With difficulty, he restricted his questions to those that seemed least intrusive. "When did you … ?" gesturing vaguely at the ring.

"Christmas – well, just after," replied Milner, still holding Sam's hand and looking happier than Foyle could ever remember seeing him. "Found the ring in an antique shop in Eastbourne last weekend."

"And when were you thinking of …"

"We thought spring. March or April."

"Jolly good."

"There's just one thing, sir." Sam, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange, addressed him directly. "A favour." She was still smiling, but in her eyes was the same expression of entreaty that he'd first seen years ago, when she'd asked him to intercede with her father about staying in Hastings.

"Yes?"

She drew in a breath. "Well, we've been talking a lot about – the wedding, you see. Trying to make arrangements. It's a bit … difficult, under the circumstances." _Of course,_ Foyle thought with a pang of sympathy. _After what she's been through these last months?_ "Anyway, I know it's rather a lot to ask, sir, but … it would be frightfully nice if … well, if you would be willing to give me away?"

_Gobsmacked_. Again.

He swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. _She wants me to step into her father's place? Me?_ _On her wedding day?_ His eyes met hers for a long moment, silently conveying everything he couldn't put into words, before he found his voice. "An honour, Sam."

* * *

_Friday 6 April 1945_

_St Bartholomew's Church, Hastings_

As the father of a son, Christopher Foyle had never expected to find himself where he now was – in an anteroom of a church, listening to the wheezy strains of the organ while waiting to escort a bride down the aisle.

It felt as though only a few days had passed since that momentous lunch at the Crown and Anchor, but then the pace of nearly all aspects of life in this spring of 1945 had accelerated at an astonishing rate. The Germans, after a last desperate offensive in the Ardennes, had now been pushed back across the Rhine and the defeat of the Nazis was clearly only months away. Weeks, perhaps.

In anticipation of the cessation of hostilities, Foyle had already filed his resignation papers with the Assistant Commissioner. He had seen the war through, done his bit. Soon he could relax, go fishing. Take up golf again. Spend time with Andrew, pray God his son came through the final push unscathed. Other, younger men could take up the fight against lawbreakers now. Men like Milner, who had recently been informed of his impending transfer to Brighton in early summer. He was ready, Foyle knew, to stand on his own. And he would have Sam by his side.

Sam. He glanced over at the bride, standing just a few steps away, seemingly lost in thought. What a long, strange journey he had made with this young woman! Through all the dangers, privations and struggles of five years of war she had challenged him, exasperated him, supported him and cheered him. He would miss her. He wondered if she had any idea how much.

"Sam?" It suddenly struck him that this might be one of their last chances to speak privately. After the ceremony, a small, quiet affair for only 20 guests, a reception was planned at _Les Bijoux, _the French restaurant that seemed to have a special significance to the couple. They didn't know it yet, but Foyle had already made arrangements to cover the bill, the best wedding gift he could think of. They would take no honeymoon now – "We'll leave it until after the war", Sam had told him – but were planning a long weekend settling into Milner's flat, turning his bachelor's digs into a home for two. Foyle suspected that they'd spend most of it in bed. He had, after all, glimpsed the looks that passed between them when they thought no one could see. Remembering the passion of his own brief honeymoon, a few precious days snatched while on leave from the Great War, he could only give them his silent blessing.

He was quietly delighted by this marriage between his driver and his protégé. Sam had been like a ship lost at sea these past months, but with Milner he knew she had found a safe harbour, a man who would protect her and love her as she deserved. As for him – well, Foyle knew only too well what that young man had suffered since the start of the war. He needed the stability of a loving marriage just as much she did. They knew each other very well and were temperamentally well suited, Milner's gentle steadiness an excellent foil to Sam's high spirits. And, of course, they loved each other deeply. The most important thing of all. Lucky Sam, lucky Milner.

"Sam." He spoke her name a second time, but again she didn't respond. He touched her gently on the elbow, pulling her out of whatever reverie she'd been lost in. "All right?"

She looked up and flashed him her sweet, girlish smile. "Yes. All present and correct." Despite her words, her voice was a little tremulous. Of course, this had to be an emotional day for her, joy mingled with sorrow.

He tried to think of something reassuring to say, what a father might say at this moment. "You look lovely, you know," he told her. And she did, in a silky day dress of creamy ivory with a frivolous little frill of a hat pinned to her hair. "He's a lucky man."

She smiled her appreciation. "Thank you, sir. And for doing this. It means a lot." Before he could reply the rector's wife appeared to beckon them out into the narthex. It was time.

He offered her his arm. "Ready?"

He could feel a tremor in the hand that slipped into the crook of his arm, and glanced down to see her bouquet of daffodils and irises trembling slightly. He straightened his posture to military crispness and tightened his arm muscles, silently giving her his support. As the organ music segued into Beethoven's _Ode to Joy _and they took their first steps down the aisle he murmured, "Steady on, Miss Stewart …"

.

_Finis_

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to all who took the time to read this. I know most people who are into _Foyle's War_ fanfic are in the F/S camp, but I hope I managed to make the Milner-Sam pairing believable. And I hope, too, that you guys got as much enjoyment out of reading this as I did out of writing it.

Feedback is always appreciated!


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